


Like the Northern Light

by Minxchester (ComeAlongPond14)



Series: Northern Light [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Blackmail, Captivity, Character Death, Depressed Sherlock, Depression, Drug Addiction, Dubious Consent, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Sex, Eventual Smut, Forced Marriage, Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Non-Consensual, Non-Consensual Touching, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, PTSD John, Rape/Non-con Elements, Suicide Attempt, security guard John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-26
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2018-04-17 07:04:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 26
Words: 85,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4657161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ComeAlongPond14/pseuds/Minxchester
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Recently returned from the war and struggling to adjust back to civilian life, John Watson is given an unexpected opportunity when he's hired as a security guard by Charles Magnussen on the recommendation of his former comrade, Sergeant Murray.</p><p>Before long, he finds himself assigned the unusual task of serving as personal bodyguard to Magnussen's reclusive husband. But not everything is as it seems in this household--and John gets a lot more than he bargained for looking after Sherlock Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wasting Away

**Author's Note:**

> This is officially the most chaotic launch I have ever had for a story. The outline is not actually complete, the soundtrack is not in order or divided into chapters, and this is possibly the shortest excuse for a chapter that I have ever posted in my life.
> 
> BUT I'M DOING IT ANYWAY. And here is why. I wanted my Sherlock readers to know that I am not, in fact, dead, and I will absolutely be delivering the stories I promised you! This chapter will hopefully be edited and fattened up, we'll see. But I wanted to give you all something, because it's been too long and I was sad. I just started grad school, and I am so sorry but it's going to be a massive time-suck. I will continue to write, but I don't even know how frequently to promise updates. This will be a wild ride, friends. PLEASE stick with me!
> 
> As an important--crucial--side note, this story will contain strong elements of dub/non-con. There will be scenes of coerced/unwilling sex. Please be warned and take note if that may trigger you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title was from the song of the same name by Decyfer Down. Please comment! Feedback is SO appreciated!

They told him he had served his country well, that he had made England proud. That it was time for him to put down the rifle and get some rest. He had saved enough men, given enough of himself, and it was time to return to the real world. To civilian life.

What they failed to mention was that there was no way you _could_ go back. They didn’t talk about the nightmares, the cold sweats, the flashbacks that could overwhelm you just as easily in a grocery store as in the privacy of your home, or the way your hands never quite stop shaking and you still see blood splatter and severed limbs and heartbroken stares whenever you close your eyes.

 _Honorable discharge_. There wasn’t much honor that John Watson could see in being reduced to this, crashing on his older sister’s sofa while he sorted out his army pension, and whether or not he would be able to work again, after the bullet hole in his shoulder and with the phantom aches in his leg. Or how he would pay for therapy to combat the post-traumatic stress, which he was still not admitting to himself was really a problem. John was stronger than this. He was determined to be.

He’d promised Harry as soon as she had invited him to stay that he would find his own place, get out of the way as soon as possible. But she and Clara had actually seemed relieved to have him. The tension between them was obvious, and if he weren’t so concerned with what he was going to do with himself now, John might’ve been strongly worried that they were heading toward divorce. When they were apart it was quieter, but when all three Watsons were together in the house, there was a suppressed unease hanging over the couple that choked John nearly as badly as his memories and dark dreams did.

Eventually, John’s discharge documents were sorted out. They weren’t providing him with housing, or even enough monetary compensation to really count toward a sufficient living, but they were covering his medical costs, at least. Being sure of his treatment was enough to motivate John, and three months after returning to London, he began thinking about finding a job.

Harry was skeptical of the idea. “Most places in the city are going to say you’re not qualified, or they don’t want to deal with the hassle of former military,” she argued when he mentioned it at dinner on one of the rare nights they were all home. Clara shot her wife a dark look, clearly scolding her for her lack of encouragement, and Harry sighed, conceding the battle. “Fine. If you’re really serious, I’m sure you could find a pub or bar looking for someone, they almost always are. It would be stable, low-key work.”

John rolled his eyes, sipping his beer. “Har, I’m not going to be that sad-eyed gimp waiter who only gets a job because everyone feels sorry for him. I’ll find something. I still have my license, I could work in a doctor’s office, or...I don’t know. There’s bound to be something.”

His sister shrugged, ignoring Clara’s pleading looks for her to drop it. “Just don’t let it get you down if you’re not hired anywhere.” When John didn’t bother responding, the conversation ended, but later that night John could hear them through the walls, Harry’s voice rising in annoyance as Clara scolded her for not supporting his desire to work again. He sighed heavily and tuned them out, wondering if he could successfully find the means to move out before something snapped, and Clara was gone for good.

He did still have his medical license, and making use of all those years of school seemed like a good way to keep his spirits up. John applied at a few clinics, only to realize very rapidly that his qualifications were fairly specific--and in the case of most of the local surgeries needing help, far too intimidating. After the third time that an interview quickly became awkward, the young brunette doctor visibly daunted by his resume, John mentally checked medicine off of his fall-back career list, smiling tightly as she shook his hand and assured him unconvincingly that they’d be in touch.

After almost five months of attempting to lead a normal (boring) life, John was sitting at an outdoor cafe, browsing job ads in the paper and pointedly ignoring Harry’s complaint-heavy texts, when he heard someone call his name.

He looked up, and couldn’t help a small start at the sight of the man hesitantly approaching his table, before smiling eagerly when he was recognized. “Serg--Bill!” John greeted his former sergeant in surprise, half-standing to shake his hand as Murray reached him. Bill Murray had been his superior officer when he’d first been transferred to the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, but had retired shortly after John arrived, and moved back to London. “How are you?” he asked, genuinely delighted to reunite with his former comrade.

Bill was all smiles as he accepted John’s gesture inviting him to sit, nodding gratefully when the waitress offered to get him a coffee. “I’m grand, mate, all good here--how about yourself? I heard about you getting shot, I’m so sorry,” he said, his expression courteous rather than pitying, and John took a moment to appreciate the fact that a fellow soldier would know not to dwell on this subject too long as Bill went on, “You doing alright, mentally?”

John shrugged, knowing Bill would be able to read more in his body language than he’d manage to convey in stuttered words. “Some days are better than others. You know how it is.” He cleared his throat, changing the subject and smiling gratefully when Bill didn’t press the point. “What’re you up to these days?”

His friend grinned, stirring sugar into his coffee. “Oh, I’m in private security now. Head of Security for a local millionaire who keeps an estate just outside of the city. It’s well-paying, provides room and board, and surprisingly it’s actually decent work--I’m not just decoration in a uniform, you know? There’s lots of valuable property, I have to deal with attempted robberies, death threats against the boss, all sorts of weird and interesting stuff.”

John smiled a little enviously, jealous of the contentment in Bill’s voice. “Sounds like a good way to be when you’re no longer a soldier, and not really able to be a civilian again.”

A thoughtful look crossed Bill’s face, and he leaned forward intently. “You know, John, my boss has actually been saying that he’d like to hire someone else with qualifications similar to mine; someone who’s above the fresh-from-academy newbies that make up the security teams, who could work on level with me and answer directly to him.” When John said nothing, unsure where Bill was going with this, Bill chuckled. “Would you like me to recommend you to Mr. Magnussen for an interview?”

Surprise filled John’s voice. “Magnussen--isn’t that the bloke who owns all the newspapers?” When Bill nodded in confirmation, John raised his eyebrows curiously. “Huh. Well, sure, why not? Here’s my number,” he said, grabbing a napkin to jot it down. “Give me a call, I s’pose.”

They parted with a firm hug, Bill promising to ring him about getting a drink sometime even if Mr. Magnussen didn’t offer to hire John, and for once John went back to Harry and Clara’s actually smiling.

He told them about it over dinner, and to no one’s surprise Harry was immediately dubious. “I don’t think that’d be the sort of job you’d enjoy, Johnny--if it’ll like Murray described, it’ll just stress you out nonstop, and it won’t give you any peace from those nightmares.”

There was a long, awkward pause, with Clara giving her wife a scandalized look and John biting his cheek, having been under the impression that he’d been hiding his night terrors fairly well from his housemates. Harry’s voice became soft and tense. “I’m--sorry, John, I didn’t mean--”

Forcing himself to laugh, John shrugged her apology off. “It’s fine, Har. Really, in all likelihood, Bill won’t call--I doubt Magnussen would want a soldier with my damage history as a security guard.” He resumed eating, relieved when Harry and Clara seemed to choose to respect his discomfort, and said nothing more about it.

Inwardly, however, John’s stomach was squirming. If he was honest with himself, he did hope that Bill would call. The job had sounded like just the thing to get him back on his feet and active again, and more than anything, he wanted something to break the monotony of regular life.

* * *

_Dinner was awful, of course. Meals together were always unbearable. Why did he ever expect it to be different? At best, it was cold and awkward, long stretches of silence broken by stilted conversation and irritable glances tossed back and forth across the darkly-lit table. And at worst, the evening would end with him on his knees, left with bruises and self-loathing and a fresh surge of resentment for his entire existence._

_Then again, perhaps those were actually the less horrible nights. It was far easier to lock himself away inside of his own head, and hide when there was touching. When his companion was sufficiently distracted and satisfied with his behavior, and didn't mind just how broken he was inside. How broken_ he _had made him._

_He knew that he should use the word husband, even in the sanctuary of his own head, but he simply could not bring himself to. That was the one place that belonged solely to him, and Charles could not have that as well._


	2. Rescue You from Yourself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "For the first time in months, John did not feel bored."
> 
> Chapter title from "Falling" by Staind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...oh mY GOD.
> 
> Okay.  
> I can do this.
> 
> So grad school is an ass-kicker of a thing. And joining a role-play community on Tumblr is kind of a dumb move when you wanna spend all of your time writing fan fiction. BUT I DID A CHAPTER GUYS LOOKIT THAT.

Enough days drifted by that John had more or less put his encounter with Bill out of his mind, continuing to endure the ever-increasing awkwardness of sharing a home with his unhappy family, and keeping a more and more disinterested eye on the job ads in the paper. The spark of possibility for something novel that been just alluring enough, though, that John was hesitant to let himself dismiss the hope that Mr. Magnussen might agree to interview him--if only just for the change of pace that the meeting might offer. After all, Harry wasn’t entirely wrong; most people wouldn’t want to deal with the hassle of hiring crippled former military.

Five days after seeing Bill, John was seated in the living room, the paper discarded on the coffee table in front of him in favor of feigning watching the news just to combat the quiet, when his mobile began vibrating beside the abandoned paper. It took two or three jarring buzzes for John to register that it was an incoming call, not just a text, and he muted the television, picking up his phone with surprise.

He didn’t bother checking the number, returning his attention halfheartedly to the newspaper as he tapped the accept key. “Hello?”

“John, hey,” Bill greeted him, his tone a warm blend of fond and professional. John blinked, his eyes widening in relief and anticipation at his friend’s voice, and he immediately set the paper back down as Bill continued. “Alright, mate? Sorry it’s taken me a few days to ring you, I had to get some work done and then only managed to speak to Mr. Magnussen about you just yesterday. So, were you really interested in interviewing, do you think?”

Stunned and slightly bewildered by the fact that this was actually happening, John nodded, then hurried to find his voice when he remembered that of course Bill couldn’t see him. “Uh, yeah, yes, I’d be more than happy to. That’d be fantastic, when?”

Bill sounded delighted, which was an additional relief; the last thing John wanted was a job that sounded right up his alley being offered out of pity, or something. “Excellent! Well, look, things are always sort of ‘right now or yesterday’ around here--would you be free to meet with Mr. Magnussen today? He has an open meeting at 3, if you can make that.”

John was almost speechless for a second. “Wow, that is--fast. Yeah, I’ve got nothing on--3 works fine for me. How do I--?”

“What’s the address, then?” Bill interrupted, chuckling as he guessed where John’s train of thought had been headed. “We’ll send a car for you, should get to you around 2:30--cabs aren’t permitted through the gates here.”

John snorted, but he didn’t comment on the pretentiousness of wealth implied by that ruling. He rattled off Harry and Clara’s address, smiling broadly when Bill promised to see him at 2:50.

As he hung up the call, Clara appeared in the hallway doorway, smiling a little wearily. Harry was out--neither John or Clara had said a word about it when she’d stalked out, but it was safe to assume she’d been headed for the pub--and John’s sister-in-law looked exhausted. “Who was that, then?” she asked kindly, rubbing a hand over her eyes as if to dispel the shadows lining her features.

John grinned up at her, too pleased to hide it even as his heart tugged sympathetically for the strain being placed on her by his insensitive sibling. “It was Bill. I got that interview with his boss, I’m going to see him today. Here’s hoping, eh?”

To his immense relief, there was none of Harry’s consternation in her spouse’s eyes, and Clara beamed at John, leaning over to pat him warmly on the shoulder. “That’s wonderful, John, I do hope it goes well. I’m sure it will do you good, a job like that.”

At 2:30 exactly, John was standing on the front steps, his cane in hand even though he hated bringing it--there was no sense in concealing such details from a potential employer, especially if any unforeseen moments of physical weakness could be a job hazard. He might hate his own limitations, but there was no denying their existence.

The drive was brief, no more than fifteen minutes as the car wound its way out of the main city and into a more privatized area, until they reached a sprawling estate that appeared to be entirely encircled by a massive wrought-iron fence. It was certainly beautiful, John noted, with flawless green lawns and strategically placed small bodies of water, patches of garden and elaborate glass and stonework decorating the property, as well as the house itself. Or perhaps mansion was an applicable term.

Despite the obvious luxury and wealth radiating from the place, however, John felt an overwhelming sense of sorrow lingering over the entire property, a stillness in the air that had him shivering slightly in undefinable discomfort as the car drove silently between two immense stone lions, following the long gravel lane up to the main entrance. The house was pale stone, with floor-to-ceiling glass breaking up the monotonous color, the double front doors made of a slightly rippled, darkly tinted glass that gave some illusion of privacy.

A man in formal butler garb appeared as soon as the car drew to a stop, trotting down the stone stairs and opening the car door for John. A little bemused by the display, John thanked him politely, and then relaxed substantially when Bill appeared in the doorway ahead of him. His friend was fully outfitted in a black nondescript uniform, visibly armed and with a radio clipped to his shoulder.

Bill grinned eagerly as he hurried down to meet John, giving him a swift one-armed hug before encouraging him inside. “I’m so glad we could make this work for you, John, I’m really hopeful about it. It would be nice to work with an old comrade, again.”

“Welcome to Appledore, London,” he went on, still smiling widely as he led John into the foyer. “It’s a near replica of Mr. Magnussen’s primary home out in Gloucestershire, per his tastes, though that building has a lot more external glass--when he remodeled this one to suit him, he opted for a bit more enclosure, what with it being right by the city. Really, he only purchased this place in order to be a bit nearer to his London office, and to his relatives.”

Surprise colored John’s voice as he tore his gaze from the rather dizzyingly high ceiling back to Bill. “I didn’t know Mr. Magnussen had any extended family.” To be fair, he didn’t know much at all about his prospective employer, but the man was a powerful social figure in his own right, considering that he owned almost all of the newspapers that catered to London. It seemed that if he had a family, they’d have been seen with him in public, or at least mentioned in the media.

Bill’s smile tightened, just fractionally, but he recovered himself quickly, the tense expression fading back to an easy smile in less than an instant. “Aye. Anyway, Mr. Magnussen’s office is upstairs to the right,” he said, gesturing for John to go ahead of him. “It’s his private study, all the way at the end, there. Big double wooden doors.”

He followed John until they reached the room in question, then paused, nodding for him to knock. When they heard a low voice call out, “Enter,” Bill smiled reassuringly at John.

“I’ll be waiting for you right out here, soon as your meeting ends,” he said, starting to move back down the hall. “Good luck!”

John drew a deep breath, steadying himself and mentally ordering his hand not to start trembling on him, then pushed open the doors and entered the study. It was a massive room, all dark tones and wood and leather furnishings, with even the fire crackling in the corner and the floor-to-ceiling window facing the front of the property failing to really bring any illumination to the space. There was an air of hopelessness in here, more so than that which lingered over the estate as a whole, and goosebumps prickled along John’s arms beneath his jacket as he turned his attention to the man at the large mahogany desk in the center of the floor.

Charles Magnussen was seated in a high-backed leather chair, his attention focused on a large black ledger that he flipped through almost idly, thin lips pursed. As John closed the door softly behind himself, Magnussen glanced up at him over the top of his wire-rimmed glasses, and smiled ever so slightly. There was little warmth in the expression.

“Captain John Watson--it is a delight to meet you,” he said in greeting, his voice much quieter and a touch higher than John would have imagined it to be--there was something borderline musical to it, but not in a particularly pleasing way. More like the soft buildup of strings before the orchestra turned ominous in the score of a horror film.

Magnussen noted the stiff way that John remained near the door, uncertain of their dynamic, and his smile softened into something faintly more welcoming, almost friendly. One hand rose to wave John forward rather delicately, his fingers long and pale and standing out starkly against the black background of his suit jacket. “Please, do come in and have a seat. May I offer you anything? Lemon water, tea...perhaps something stronger? I do have brandy.”

John cracked an awkward little smile at the comment as he moved forward, and then he realized that Magnussen was serious, and he chuckled faintly. He shook his head, crossing to the leather armchair opposite Magnussen, relying heavily on his cane as he crossed the room. “Uh, tea, tea would be lovely, thanks.”

Magnussen pressed one fingertip to a button on the desk phone, and at the soft crackle of the intercom, he instructed, “Tea, please, for two. Cream and sugar?” At John’s polite headshake, he made an affirming hum and released the button, sitting back to regard John with quiet intensity. “Sergeant Murray has told me some of your history, and of course I went ahead and reviewed your military and personal records...you come quite highly recommended for this position.”

Unbidden, John’s gaze dropped down to his cane, feeling slightly embarrassed by the compliment. Magnussen merely laughed, low and dry, the humor in the sound like crackling leaves in a fire--existent, but somehow melancholy. “Some people might consider that a handicap or a limitation to you, Captain, but I consider it a tangible mark of your survival. It is not a weakness.” He focused on John’s face, noting each twitch of muscle and flicker of expression. “You were also a doctor in the army. You still have your medical license.”

Uncertain if he was expected to answer that out loud, John merely nodded, and then put voice to it anyway. “Yes. Sir.”

Magnussen nodded as well, slowly, as if the response held extreme gravity. He shifted forward slightly in his chair. “Do you prefer Dr. Watson, to _Captain_? I noticed the tension in your shoulders increase when I addressed you as such.”

John swallowed, feeling unexpectedly transparent at having that small detail noticed. He had become used to which of his titles was deemed the more pertinent in conversation, and which people tended to default to when talking to him. To be able to choose felt almost too potent, like both of his identities were relevant again. “I...yes, sir, I think of myself as a former doctor now, more than a retired soldier.”

He received an inclination of the head in answer, not really a proper nod this time. “Perfectly understandable, Dr. Watson. I will remember.” Magnussen leaned back again as a woman entered with a tea tray, pouring two cups and offering John his, before ducking out again once each of them were served. Both men sipped their tea for a moment in silence, John’s eyes remaining on his hands, but he was highly aware of Magnussen’s gaze on his face.

At last, Magnussen set his cup on the desk and leaned forward again, his tone sharpening into something more business-like as he folded his hands on the desk top. “My security is arranged in a hierarchy, Dr. Watson. Sergeant Murray runs the operation, and he has three units of men under his command. One of those is permitted inside the house, serving to guard my property and personal possessions, and on hand for me should I require assistance. The other two work outside, patrolling the grounds and being available as needed.”

He paused, licking his lips, then cocked his head slightly and continued, pale blue gaze still locked with unnerving focus on John. “I am interested in employing someone closer to the Sergeant’s rank, who can assist him with leadership and also answer directly to me, someone familiar with military professionalism.” He removed his glasses, cleaning the lenses absently as he explained. “Sergeant Murray is the closest thing to a ‘trusted’ right hand that I have, and I would prefer he not be overburdened by responsibilities; hence the choice to find him a comrade. And his recommending you himself makes that task much simpler, as he has high hopes of his own for your contribution to his outfit. Do you have any questions on the position being offered?"

John was more than a little stunned that it was going this smoothly--despite his oddities and, well, eccentricities, he had the distinct impression that Magnussen actually liked him. He jumped to find his voice. “No, sir. I--that sounds perfectly doable.”

Magnussen nodded, looking pleased as he slipped his glasses back on. “Delightful. I will have a contract of service drawn up, and send a car for you to return on Monday at this same time to read over it and offer any amendments before signing. Is it acceptable to you to remain in residence on the estate? I prefer my security to be very available.”

John nodded at once, inwardly relieved that he would be able to move off of Harry and Clara’s couch so soon, without having to build up enough income to make rent somewhere nearer to here. Magnussen offered him one last cool little smile, his gaze almost shark-like in the strength of its concentration. “I look forward to having you in my eomployment, Dr. Watson.”

He didn’t offer a handshake, and John murmured something affirmational as he stood, retreating from the office when Magnussen appeared to have moved his attention elsewhere. In the hallway, Bill was waiting for him already, smiling encouragingly. “How’d it go?”

“It went well, yeah, it was really good,” John said, smiling back a little shakily. He felt oddly as if he had just run a mile--despite the impossibility of that task--and everything inside him was shivering slightly. But the interview had been a success, that much was sure. “I’ll be coming back on Monday to finalize my contract,” he added, and Bill lit up.

“Wonderful!” he said, clapping John on the shoulder in excitement. “I’m really looking forward to this, John, it’ll be good to have an old friend around here with me. We should get drinks tomorrow, to celebrate? It’s my night off.” He looked so utterly pleased that John could only nod, returning his friend’s happy expression as Bill guided him back toward the staircase.

As they descended toward the foyer, a faint trickle of sound reached John’s ears, and it took him several seconds to realize that he was hearing music. It was barely there, coming from above and off to the side, and John glanced back up the grand stairway curiously, head tilting to catch the tremulous notes that trailed after him, sweet and slow and somewhat heartbreaking.

There was something too poignant about the sound, too alive to be a mere recording. “Is that being played live?” he asked, pausing on the darkly carpeted stairs, trying to place the origin of the music. “Or is it a CD? It sounds amazing.”

Bill barely looked back at him, steps not faltering as he descended. “Not sure. Mr. Magnussen really likes the violin.”

Outside the front doors, Bill walked him back to the awaiting car, squeezing his shoulder cheerfully. “So, I’ll see you tomorrow--text you the time and place? Really looking forward to all this, John, I think it’ll be wonderful working together again.”

John watched his friend go, smiling more relaxedly now, and then turned to get into the car. As he ducked his head, his gaze drifted over the front of the enormous house, and at the far end--just before the building twisted in a curve that angled out of sight--John noticed one of the curtains swinging back into place, as if someone had been standing there looking down at him.

He paused for a heartbeat, watching the grey fabric sway slightly, and then huffed an annoyed laugh at himself, dropping into the seat. _Like something out of a bloody gothic novel_ , John thought, shaking his head in amusement at his own fancy. _This is real life, not Charlotte Bronte_.

He gazed unseeingly out the window as the car took him back to Harry and Clara’s. his heartbeat still pattering a little unevenly inside his chest. For the first time in months, John did not feel bored.

* * *

_A soldier...and a doctor, as well. Retired, but far from done fighting--must’ve stopped due to the injury, not because he was ready to. Funny that he bothers with that cane, he obviously doesn’t really need it. Suppose no one has tried to help him to realize that...they’d all rather just tell him that he’s damaged and to just accept that. Always wanting to erase people once they're damaged, never bothering to fix them._

_Distantly a door closes, only audible inthe mausoleum-like silence of all the empty space between here and there. Footsteps, so far away, yet echoing with the foreboding of gunshots. Soon there will be knocking, a voice speaking soft cruelties, instructions he doesn't want to hear, and then it will be yet another round of utterly dull misery, feigned compliance, false smiles. It simply never goes away. One would think that he would grow tired of forcing him to keep up the charade here, in the silence of this tomb...but no matter. Time to perform._

_He would like to speak to the doctor. But he supposed that there was no point in hoping for that._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I gotta admit, I spent like 15 minutes after editing this giggling over how dramatic the last bit sounds. Poor thing. He's cooped up with nothing better to do than wax poetic about every thought he has.
> 
> Also, I may start getting kind of whimsical with my writing style--I've recently tripped head-first into the Hannibal fandom (...) and have become addicted to the absolutely stUNNING STYLE of drinkbloodlikewine and whiskeyandspite. If you like that show, Hannigram, and dark fics...go check it out. Wow. But yeah they're influencing me a lot.


	3. We Always Start With Good Intentions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Really, we’re just glorified bodyguards--so long as we keep Mr. Magnussen safe, and keep a close eye on all of his property, then we’re doing it right.”
> 
> Chapter title from "This Is the Time" by Nothing More.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...responsibly, I should've updated my Supernatural "Criminal" series next. But this chapter is just so filler-ish, I felt obligated to get it done and up and out of the way. Rest assured, Sherlock will appear in chapter four!
> 
> Also, I finished my first semester of grad school today. :DDD

On Monday afternoon, John returned to Appledore London with much more confidence.

During their evening out over the weekend, Bill had explained to him at length how the job usually went, and his description had greatly eased John’s anxiety over his new employment. From the sound of it, the work involved all of the military structure and constant motion that he had been craving for the past several months--without the overwhelming sense that you could die at any moment hanging over your head.

“Really,” Bill had told him with a laugh, “We’re just glorified bodyguards--so long as we keep Mr. Magnussen safe, and keep a close eye on all of his property, then we’re doing it right.”

When the car dropped John off at the front steps this time, Bill was not there to greet him. John climbed out of the car, nodding at the butler who’d come to open the car door for him--he’d have to work to get used to that sort of treatment--and glanced around for his absent friend. “Is Bi--Sergeant Murray around?” he asked, catching himself on the informality.

The butler shook his head, closing the door and starting back up the steps at once. He had the closed-off expression and blank eyes of a man who worked diligently to keep from getting personally involved in anything beyond his basic roles in the house, and John had the distinct feeling that they would not get along much.

“Sergeant Murray was sent to attend to some personal concerns of Mr. Magnussen’s,” he told John primly, opening the enormous front door for him. “He will hopefully be available to meet you after you’ve seen Mr. Magnussen, in order to show you the estate.”

Nothing more was said between them, and within a moment John found himself deposited wordlessly in front of Mr. Magnussen’s study again, this time without the reassurance of Bill’s friendly smile to brace himself with before he knocked firmly on the dark wood paneling. Again, there was a cooly formal call of, “Enter.”

When John stepped into the large, gloomy room for the second time, he noticed immediately that Mr. Magnussen was visibly more tense than he had been the week before. He stood and greeted John just as courteously, however, his voice sharing none of the disquiet which rippled through his thin figure.

“Dr. Watson,” he said courteously, gesturing to the same chair John had occupied during their previous meeting. “May I offer you some tea, again?”

John nodded gratefully, noticing only then that the tea tray had already been placed on the desktop, as if Magnussen had assumed that he would say yes. As John took his seat, he glanced at his new employer hesitantly, hoping that his question would not seem impertinent. He didn’t need to make a poor impression before he’d even started work, after all. “Are you alright, sir? You seem...upset.”

The older man paused in the process of pouring the tea, glancing at John over the wire rims of his glasses. One eyebrow rose slightly, an expression of mild curiosity flickering through his icy blue eyes, before he merely smiled politely, setting the kettle back down and handing John a cup and saucer. “I am perfectly well, Dr. Watson. Thank you for your concern, that is very kind.”

Magnussen sat down in his own chair, picking up a packet of papers from the desktop and offering them to John across the broad wooden surface. Accepting the pages, John realized it was his employment contract, and he gave Mr. Magnussen a quick nod before he began to read over it, as swiftly as he could.

To his relief, it appeared to be exactly as Bill had promised him; he was being hired for armed security service to Charles Augustus Magnussen and household, both people and property. He would be on-call when not actively on-duty, live on-site, and receive one night off each week, with the freedom to leave the estate anytime during on-call and off-duty time--as long as he returned at once if needed while he was on-call.

John sighed the document with much more certainty than he had expected to feel, relieved that he finally had work--and better yet, work that he was going to enjoy. The past few months had left John more and more anxious that he really would be stuck doing something dead-end and dull, as Harry had said--that he’d end up forgotten by the rest of the world, little more than a burden to his family, and without hope of finding any real sense of purpose again.

He handed the paperwork back over the desk, giving Mr. Magnussen a tight smile. “Thank you very much, sir. I really appreciate this opportunity.” With great effort, John kept himself from glancing down at his cane, leaning against the side of his chair; with his words of gratitude, he wondered if Magnussen would see that he was relieved to be taken seriously; not written off as a cripple with no prospects or strengths to contribute.

Mr. Magnussen returned his smile, though the warmth of the expression did not extend to reach his eyes. “It’s my pleasure, Dr. Watson. I look forward to having you on my team.” He rose, offering a hand across the table, and John hesitantly accepted the handshake, then did his best not to flinch; Magnussen’s hand was cool and a little damp, his touch too moist to be pleasant--though Magnussen did not seem to notice, and John said nothing.

“Sergeant Murray should be available by now,” Magnussen went on, sitting back down and glancing idly over John’s contract before setting it aside. “If you return downstairs to the foyer, I believe he will be ready to take you for uniform sizing and to be registered for the necessary equipment. If you have the time, he can also give you a tour of the house and facilities, and show you some of the estate, if you’d like.”

Magnussen offered him another bland smile, his eyes hidden from John as the weak sunlight entering through the window to the left cast a glare on the lenses of his glasses. “You will be paid as of today, but consider your active duty as beginning tomorrow. Enjoy your day.”

John nodded, managing to murmur something affirmative-sounding, but he was thoroughly distracted by the unexpected thought flashing through his mind that Magnussen bore an uncanny resemblance to a shark. The man was somehow simultaneously predatory and nondescript at once, and although John remained grateful for this job, he was not sure at all how he should feel about his employer.

It was clear that he was dismissed, however, and John wasted no time collecting his cane and excusing himself from the study. The upstairs hallway was empty, and John suppressed a shiver at the oppressive silence of the dimply-lit space as he tread across the thick carpet, feeling guilty relief when he reached the top of the stairs. Artfully placed distorted glass panes in the ceiling made the front entrance much more appealing than the right corridor, and John felt as if his chest were re-opening after a great weight had been crushing it, the air flowing more easily as the natural light washed over him.

Bill stood at the foot of the grand staircase, dressed once again in full uniform. Even from several yards above him John could see that he appeared distinctly ruffled. There was a frown pinching the corners of his eyes, though the set of his mouth was more or less neutral, and his shoulders shifted restlessly, as if he wished to be in action.

John smiled as he joined his friend, wondering if whatever had Bill upset was the “personal concern” of Magnussen’s that he’d been sent to handle. “You alright?” he asked, pausing beside Bill and shifting his weight experimentally; to his relief, his leg had not offered any protests yet today, though he supposed it did help that he was running on adrenaline over starting work. “Was there a problem? I was told you were handling something for Mr. Magnussen.”

Bill gave him a weary smile, his eyes softening, and he shrugged, as if to dislodge his own tension. “Nothing out of the norm for me. I do my best to keep things running smoothly for Mr. Magnussen, but there are always hiccups. Nothing for it but to handle them as they come. Now, all good? I assume you’re newly employed and ready for a tour of the place?”

At John’s nod, Bill grinned approvingly, turning to gesture toward a hallway to the left of the front doors. “Right, we’ll start with the most relevant to us. This is the security station--our home away from home.” He led the way down the hall, bringing John first to a room full of security monitors and speakers. “We’ve got cameras more or less _everywhere_ ; I think Mr. Magnussen’s rooms are the only ones we don’t monitor for him. You won’t be working in here, much, but everything records, so you can always check if something seems amiss.”

The next door opened to reveal what looked like an standard employee lounge. “Our break room, basically,” Bill chuckled. “Mess hall, too. All the security staff can take their meals and breaks in here; it’s got a full kitchen. That door--” Bill nodded to a small entrance in the corner. “--is a private link to the in-house medical center, if you’re ever in need of that.”

John gave a small start, looking at him in surprise, but Bill merely shrugged. “If medical care is needed--even as small as a bad cold, or the like--Mr. Magnussen prefers that no one need to leave the estate, or have anyone summoned here. He has a private doctor on staff. She’s excellent, I’m sure you’ll get along with her just fine."

After the break room was what looked like the back room of a clothing warehouse, with a label on the door reading _Uniforms_. A circular staircase in the corner led downstairs to the laundry, kept under the house. “Past this, all that’s left is our armory, which is locked by key card and probably the most strictly monitored room in use by security personnel,” Bill explained. “It can be accessed from the barracks, which are outside, but only by cards of our rank, or higher--so just us and Mr. Magnussen.”

There was an attendant in the uniform room, and at Bill’s prompting, John provided his clothing sizes, and filled out the paperwork needed to clear him to be armed on private property. He would receive two handguns, a four-finger trench blade, a radio linked to the entire security team as well as Mr. Magnussen’s study, and a stun gun.

Next Bill led him outside, and around the house to the right. Just out of sight of the main driveway were the barracks, where the security teams were housed. “There’s twenty-four men, besides you and me,” Bill told him. “Three units, eight men each. The teams stick together, so everyone’s really sort of become family by now.” Scanning his ID card at the first building, he led John into the narrow hallway, showing him where the men lived.

Each of the security members had a small, sparsely furnished room, containing only a bed and a dresser. At the center of the barracks there was a common room filled with desks, televisions, a few recreational table games, and a handful of messily-stocked bookcases and chairs. There were communal bathrooms on either side of the common space, one for each set of barracks.

There were a few men in the common room, wearing civilian clothes and clearly off-duty, but Bill merely waved to them in passing as he led John onward. John caught the polite smiles they sent him, and his shoulders lost some of the tension that had slid through his muscles at the sight of them; he’d been anxious that he’d be unwelcome, viewed as an outsider or interference by the lower-ranked guards. But they didn’t appear displeased by his presence.

Separated from the barracks, nearer to the wrought iron fence that encircled the entire property, was a smaller building of a similar design. It was like entering a bunker, John thought, though it was noticeably much nicer than the men's barracks. This unit was split into two halves, each with its own decent-sized bedroom, a small personal office, and a private bathroom.

Bill turned toward him, offering him a keycard. “You’re all cleared, full access. This side’s yours--” He nodded at the undecorated bedroom they stood in, then pointed to the door at the far end of the adjacent study. “--and I’m through there. Your card gives you access to this building, the barracks, the main house, and those security rooms. Basically everything except Mr. Magnussen’s rooms up in the right wing.”

John couldn’t quite school the unease off of his face, and at Bill’s encouraging nod, he smiled a little sheepishly. “I’m a bit intimidated,” John admitted, glancing around the clean little room that was now apparently his. “It seems like a fairly intense security system, for a newspaper man.” He glanced down at his cane, swallowing. “I may be under-qualified, after all.”

Bill chuckled kindly, clapping him on the shoulder reassuringly as they headed back out of the room, into the office and toward the entrance. “You aren’t in the least, John, I promise. I know it all seems quite daunting, but don’t let it worry you. Mr. Magnussen is just the ‘better safe than sorry’ type. He’s rich and very private, with lots of valuable property and assets. Caution beats carelessness with his kind of power and wealth.”

He gestured to the corner of the ceiling, and for the first time John noticed the tiny black half-sphere attached to the surface, glossy black with a tiny red light indicating power-on. Bill spoke from behind him. “We do have surveillance in here, but they’re set to record, and only accessible on our own computers--you and I are responsible for our own security. If something is amiss and the team needs to see it, we have to log in from here and send the footage to the main room.” Bill chuckled. “Fact is, John, we get the closest thing to real privacy that you’ll find at Appledore. Only Mr. Magnussen is completely covered.”

They headed out to the grounds next, though Bill assured him it was all basically the same as what he could see just from the front steps of the house; perfectly kept lawns covered the entire estate, with a small maze of manicured hedges at one end, several patches of exotic flowers and a few tastefully placed clumps of trees--the entire fence was lined with them, adding to the estate’s heavy sense of seclusion from the outside world--and scattered around the house at equal points, there were three small bodies of water.

“The fellas go fishing, sometimes,” Bill said, smiling at the way John brightened. “Mr. Magnussen pays twice a year to have the ponds looked after and stocked with local fish. It’s nice. There’s also a swimming pool, downstairs behind the laundry, which the staff is permitted to use on their off-days.”

The tour came full-circle, and Bill waved for John to climb the front stairs again. “I’ll show you the main house before you go to fetch your things.” They stopped just inside the foyer, and Bill gestured as he spoke. “Alright, we’ve covered the security hallway. Everything else is split into the left and right wings.”

He pointed to their immediately right, on the first floor. “Down here, there’s the primary living room. Mostly decorative,” he added, opening one side of the ornate double doors and letting John glimpse inside. The room was quiet and dark, with the distinct sensation of being unused lingering over the pale furniture and untouched bookshelves. An empty fireplace was placed in the center of the wall, utterly spotless, not even a kindling box beside it to encourage use.

“Library next door,” Bill went on, closing the door again and pointing to a single door further on. “There a connecting doorway between that and the living room. We’re totally welcome to the books,” he added, shrugging. “But no one is ever in there, honestly.”

On the left side of the main entrance, they passed the security hallway and moved on. “The dining room mirrors the living room. It gets a bit more use, though--Mr. Magnussen occasionally hosts parties, for politicians or dignitaries or other newspaper moguls, and the like. The primary kitchen is adjacent to that.”

They returned to the foyer, and Bill slowly wandered halfway up the main staircase as he continued explaining, with John trailing along beside him. “The doors to the medical ward, the laundry rooms, and some storage areas are all tucked behind these steps. Up here--” He pointed to the right wing of the second floor. “--is Mr. Magnussen’s side. His study, his file room--always locked, and he has the only key--and then further along, there’s his private library, a smaller dining room, or lounge, whatever, where he usually eats, and then his bedroom. He’s got a private terrace running the length of it, too.”

The sergeant barely turned as he waved a hand toward the opposite side of the house. “Left wing is more or less the same floor plan, and mostly unused. Another library/lounge, a little room with a fireplace and a chess table, and a guest room that I think has literally never been slept in. It’s basically decorative.”

Bill shrugged as he turned back to face. “The security teams are rarely sent upstairs; I just do occasional rounds to keep an eye on things and monitor the property for duty’s sake. Now and then I may send you up, since you match my clearance, but there’s nothing much to think about up here.”

John nodded, accepting the information and filing it away mentally.

As they began to walk back down the steps, the tour complete, his attention was again caught by the very faintest strain of distant music, winding after them as if from the far left--beyond the “decorative” rooms Bill had identified. It was most definitely coming from the supposedly unused left wing.

John stopped walking, glancing back up the stairs and toward the closed double doors that blocked what must be a mirroring hallway to the one that led to Magnussen’s study. “Wait--that music again. Is there someone over there, in the left wing?”

His question made Bill pause, and after a heartbeat, the sergeant turned back towards John, still standing on the steps, and he reached out to rest one hand lightly on John’s arm. “Look, mate,” the older man said, his tone kind, yet edged with steel. “The first--and most important--rule of working at Appledore will be that unless it is part of your explicit instructions--unless Mr. Magnussen or myself directly tell you about it--then consider everything else to be classified, or irrelevant information, and put it out of your mind. Questions aren’t really the best idea.”

The warning seemed so out of place after their amiable conversation of the past few hours, and far more foreboding than the nature of his employment called for, that for a moment John could not summon a verbal response, bewildered by the abrupt shift in atmosphere between them. The disconcerting undercurrent of loneliness that seemed to hang over Appledore London like a thin mist, intensified by the eccentricity of Mr. Magnussen and the _don’t ask, don’t tell_ attitude of the staff, made the hair on the back of John’s neck stand up, a slight shiver of unease running through him that he quickly suppressed.

Finally, his voice returned to him, and John nodded at Bill apologetically. “I’m sorry,” he said, more sincere than cowering, and Bill smiled at him gently, the tension in his eyes easing as he returned John’s nod, and resumed walking down the stairs.

They continued toward the front entrance, the indistinct notes of the violin trailing after them.

* * *

 _He_ knew _that the doctor had heard him playing this time. Perhaps that would prove to be his means of reaching out to him._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I'm so sorry, I know this chapter was boring. But you needed to know all about Appledore!)


	4. Tomorrow Will Be Kinder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The other man jerked slightly, clearly shocked to find himself not alone in the room, and John swiftly raised his hands in apology as he turned around."
> 
> Chapter title from "Tomorrow Will Be Kinder" by The Secret Sisters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 4 Soundtrack:  
> -"Let Your Heart Hold Fast" (Fort Atlantic)  
> -"Tomorrow Will Be Kinder" (The Secret Sisters)  
> -"Numb" (Linkin Park)
> 
> CHAPTER CONTENT WARNING: There is sexual content of a dubiously-consenting nature in this chapter. Please see end notes*, or email me at tispy.the.minx@gmail.com if you need detailed warnings.

It was both a relief and a surprise for John that running security at Appledore London was, as Bill had repeatedly assured him it would be, fairly straightforward work. Every morning he rose at dawn to have breakfast with the rest of the men on the three teams, and then he went to the monitor room to check in with Bill, collect his gear, and go wherever Bill sent him on the property. 

Sometimes it was walking the grounds with one of the teams--which John found highly enjoyable, as it gave him opportunity to get to know the younger soldiers, and to hear stories about both their own lives, and their time at Appledore.

More often, however, he was stationed inside the house, either moving slowly through the two floors and keeping an eye on things, or standing at the door of whatever room Mr. Magnussen was in. He and Bill each took their turns being on-hand for Mr. Magnussen, whether he was working in his study, taking lunch in his private dining room, or reclining in his library. 

All in all, it was relatively boring, but the formality that was expected of the staff granted John the familiar, militarized structure that he hadn’t realized had been so valuable to him. He had a purpose here, regardless of the amount of real “action” he saw, and as the days went by and he became friends with the men, and fell into the rhythm of life at Appledore, John found himself, unexpectedly, at peace.

The day even came when he left the bunker without even glancing at his cane, leaning quietly against the wall in the corner of his bedroom, and John didn’t notice its absence until he had clocked out again that night, eaten dinner with Bill, and returned to their little building. His leg felt strong, and for the first time since the bullet had struck his shoulder, John felt no pain, even at the sight of the cane.

There was other staff, as well, besides the security teams, and John got to know them too, though not as well. Three maids came in a few times each week to tidy around the already-immaculate home, but like the cooks who provided everyone’s food, they did not live on the property, and conversations were usually limited to small talk as John passed them working, or encountered them during meal breaks.

John was fairly certain that the butler lived in the house as well, but after Bill’s rather ominous reprimand about not asking questions, John was hesitant to inquire about even that minor information. He did cautiously admit to Bill that he’d never caught the man’s name, and Bill had laughed before telling him that Wilkes was a stuck-up ponce who enjoyed avoiding contact with the security staff; John shouldn’t expect more than minimal interaction with him.

At the end of his first week at Appledore, John phoned Harry and Clara, praying as it rang that he would not reach a drunk Harry, ranting about her wife finally moving out. To his immense relief, it was Clara who answered, and when he assured her that he was enjoying work and simply wanted to check in on them, both his sister and sister-in-law were delighted to hear from him. He did not say so out loud, but John was personally comforted that they seemed to be getting back on solid ground with each other. Perhaps it really was for the best that he’d found a position that took him off of their couch so quickly.

The only thing that remained disconcerting, as the days wore on and work turned into routine, was that John still frequently heard the sound of a violin being played whenever he was working inside the house. With great effort, he resisted asking Bill about it again, if only because he had never seen such gravity in his longtime friend’s eyes as when he’d warned John off on day one.

Curiosity continued to plague him, though, and one afternoon as he descending the stairs back toward the security room, the faint sound of a softly-played melody starting up made him pause on the steps. Wilkes was moving past him, taking Mr. Magnussen his coffee, and John hesitantly cleared his throat, his heartbeat accelerating very slightly as the other man leveled an annoyed, inquiring glance at him. “Um--sorry, I just--I was wondering, where is that music coming from? I’ve been hearing it almost every day, and it sounds like it’s played live. It’s beautiful.”

John hadn’t had high hopes that Wilkes would tell him anything useful, simply out of snobbery if nothing else, but he certainly didn’t expect the flash of unease that flickered through the butler’s narrow eyes as his gaze cut upward, toward the upper floor, and then back to John, his expression tightening around the eyes and mouth. “Mr. Magnussen enjoys the violin,” he said, his tone short and dismissive, and with that he continued walking as if there was nothing more to it. John stared after him, but there was no point calling him back.

For the rest of that day, and over the next several, John struggled to convince himself that it was just a recording, and that whatever reason the staff might have for being so on edge was nothing suspicious or conspiratorial. Clearly Mr. Magnussen was a highly reserved, privacy-obsessed man; Bill had made it more than clearly enough that it wasn’t John’s job to know every detail of his employer’s life, simply to protect it. It was ridiculous to let the oppressive silence of the house, and the cold manner in which it was run, send his mind spinning away with wild ideas that anything sinister was going on.

He just couldn’t understand the tension that underlined the dismissals he had received, or why both Bill and Wilkes would seem outright _distressed_ that he ask about the music. Personally, John thought it was quite nice that Mr. Magnussen enjoyed the classical instrument, and would allow it to be played throughout the whole house--whether live or not--for the shared enjoyment of the entire household. 

When he had been there almost three weeks, Bill summoned him back to the security room, and gave him a message to carry to the captain of the interior team, Dimmock, who was currently working upstairs. John had just reached the man in question, waiting for him at the top of the staircase, and was in the middle of explaining Bill’s instructions when the music changed.

A single note was played wrong, jarring the muted tune out of its soft, simple rhythm, and abruptly the playing halted. Within a moment it began again, the same measure repeated without error this time, and the song continued on uninterrupted.

John was immediately distracted, stumbling over his words as he completed delivering the message, but he caught himself and corrected the statement. Dimmock nodded briskly, his shadowed eyes cutting to his right, down the opposite hallway from Mr. Magnussen’s office. Then he startled John by reaching out and clapping a hand lightly on the blonde’s man’s shoulder, his pleasant tone a brittle contrast to the solemnity of his gaze.

“Pay it no mind,” he said, and there was a smile on his face--but the expression was just a degree too stiff to be sincere. John nodded at him all the same, wanting more than ever to simply ignore all of the contrary data, and investigate for himself. But responsibility won over impulse, and he gritted his teeth, turning his back on the upstairs wings and returning to Bill.

He might have actually heeded the repetitive orders to keep his eyes and his mind on his work with no thought for anything aside from his duties--except that when he next heard the music, it was a piece he knew all too well. An Irish lullaby, one that John had listened to constantly after returning from Afghanistan. The short, soothing song had always calmed his nerves, whether it was a panic attack during waking hours, or coming out of a nightmare that left him sweating and shaking in his bed.

He was in Magnussen’s wing, standing at attention outside of the study door, and the familiar pattern of the song--different, when played on a violin than a piano, but so ingrained in John’s subconscious that the sound immediately had his muscles loosening, his mind easing--washed over him like a physical caress, making his heart leap with an irrational surge of pleasure and relief. It was being played slowly, cautiously, as if by someone who had only just learned the notes, and John’s interest was far too piqued; there was no chance of him letting this go now.

That evening, as soon as he had clocked out and been dismissed for on-call duty, John paused in the foyer before leaving to change into his own clothes. He could still hear music; it was the same piece as earlier, being played again but much more creatively now, the violinist adding improvisations and harmonizing notes to make the entire piece softer, and yet somehow more playful than its original composition.

Curiosity beat out sense with an overwhelming vote, and John pivoted on his heel, checking only that the coast was clear--Bill had left the monitor room, so he wouldn’t see John’s defiance on the computer screens--before he climbed the stairs, two at a time, and turned left, moving slowly down the one hallway he had not yet entered.

It was much like its twin: a long, dimly-lit stretch of carpet, the walls sparsely decorated and the lack of either natural or synthetic light making the space feel choked and lifeless--but at the end, the double doors stood wide open in invitation. And the room into which they led was nothing whatsoever like Magnussen’s office, over in the right wing.

The space was just as large as Magnussen’s study, but by far more open and airy; lined with floor-to-ceiling glass windows, with live plants scattered throughout, and even a small fountain bubbling and gurgling at the center. On the far side from where John stood, an open doorway revealed another hallway, but it was too dark to make out where it led from across the enormous space. And John was far too distracted by the view right in front of him to investigate.

There was foliage everywhere; hanging from the ceiling in pots, and growing, climbing, tumbling out of planters and indoor garden structures placed strategically here and there. The fountain was above-ground, round-shaped, with one side carved in to form a small bench that was lined with cushions. The walls on either end, where the doors were, were lined every inch with bookcases of various heights and widths, all stuffed to overflowing. Even the floor by John’s feet was covered in stacks in books, notepads, and writing supplies, sheets of music and what appeared to be drawings, scattered in among the plant life.

It was only as he was taking in the sheer spectacle of the room, eyes leaping over the myriad of books lying about, that John registered a second person in the room. Over to the right side, next to the windows and towards the center of the room, there was a loveseat and two armchairs arranged around a tasteful coffee table, currently bathed in the soft twilight glow filtering in through the glass.

Next to one of the armchairs stood an empty violin stand, and a single music stand, in front of which stood the man playing the instrument itself.

His back was to John, but that did nothing to hinder the distinct impression that he was beautiful. He was tall, and shockingly skinny, with thick dark hair that obscured his face from the side. The purple silk of his shirt clung to his frame in a manner that set off every red flag in the doctoral side of John’s brain--but he was equally distracted by the mile-long legs, clothed in expensive, form-fitting black trousers, and the utter ease and fluidity with which the stranger moved as he played, transitioning now from John’s lullaby to something sweet and melancholy, the song somehow lonely and content at the same time.

The man’s entire body was poured into his music, the violin and its bow appearing to merely be extensions of himself as he swayed along with the notes. He half-turned, still playing, and John finally glimpsed his face; eyes closed, pale cupid’s bow lips parted slightly, and his expression open and innocent as he swayed lazily with the rhythm of the piece.

When the melody drew to a close, John found himself almost desperate to hear the stranger speak--to know if his voice was anything like his music--and with real effort, he pushed the words out before the other man could resume playing.

“What song was that?" 

The other man jerked slightly, clearly shocked to find himself not alone in the room, and John swiftly raised his hands in apology as he turned around. John had never in his life seen eyes like that; they were wide and blue-grey-green, absolutely iridescent as the man’s expression seemed to rotate through a pinwheel of emotions. There was something almost lost and disoriented in his gaze, bewildered, as if he didn’t know what to make of being spoken to directly.

John was all apologies, mentally cursing himself for interrupting the stranger. “I’m so sorry, mate, I know I shouldn’t have just walked in--didn’t mean to scare you.” He started to retreat back into the hallway, his heart pounding, very much hoping he would end up being fired for this.

“Wait. Don’t--don’t go.”

John paused at the doorway, glancing back over his shoulder uncertainly. The other man was facing him fully now, the look on his face morphing smoothly into one of deep interest. His eyes sharpened, becoming more focused, turning a brilliant, icy shade of crystalline blue as he stared at John curiously. “Please, stay.”

John hesitated for several more heartbeats, reading the sincerity in that impossibly penetrating gaze, and then finally he nodded, turning back toward the window. The man lowered the violin and bow, glancing down at them and smiling a little, as if suddenly shy. “It was--just something that I wrote. I enjoy composing just as much as improvising on others’ music. Perhaps more.”

John opened his mouth, the words _I know_ jumping to his lips, but he didn’t know how to comment on the lullaby that had drawn him up here; didn’t know how to ask why this stranger had happened to choose that particular piece, without sounding potentially very stalkerish.

What emerged instead was, “Would you play some more?” Instantly John nearly bit his own tongue, remembering how irritable Harry could get when they were teenagers, and people had constantly asked her to play her clarinet for them. “I’m--I am sorry, that was so rude of me. You’re just playing for your own enjoyment, and here I am bursting in and--”

He was cut off as the man laughed softly, the sound thin and almost whimsical. It sounded fragile, as if he were not used to laughing often. “No, I--I don’t mind, honestly. I don’t...I don’t often get to play for others.” The stranger’s smile shrank a little as he said the words, turning almost shy, and John found it ridiculously endearing; he had to mentally shake himself at the surge of warmth he felt for the sad, beautiful creature in front of him. The sentiment was completely out of place and irrational.

Then the stranger raised his violin again, and John was immediately lost, utterly swept away by the music as he launched into a melody that was bittersweet, and yet almost playful, and still deeply pensive, all at once. John had no idea how long he stood there, just listening, pulled under by the heart wrenching notes being wrung from the violin as the stranger watched him back from beneath long, coal-black lashes.

* * *

If he had evaluated the room more carefully, with more of a soldier’s mentality, then John might have noticed the cameras in each of the four corners of the room, all with red lights on and glowing to indicate active status. As he stood by the doorway, watching the black-haired man playing, he was blissfully unaware of Charles Magnussen seated at his desk, observing them both on a laptop monitor. Charles watched the way John relaxed into the music, eyes locked on the violinist with something like awe--and undeniably, pleasure--visible on his face.

Charles’ gaze slid back to his husband, taking in the way that Sherlock fell back into his music--another original composition, Charles was quite certain--as if he had no audience at all. Charles raised an eyebrow, curious about his spouse’s complete and immediate acceptance of his visitor; normally, by now, he might have thrown a book at them to make them leave. Pursing his lips, Charles made a note in the black book in which he kept track of the security teams’ assignments. Perhaps Dr. Watson would be of even more use than he had anticipated.

* * *

The next evening, during their requisite weekly dinner, Charles found his husband much much more lively than normal; there was real color in his gaunt cheeks, an almost forgotten spark of life back in his glasz eyes, and he even made actual conversation across the small mahogany table between them, rather than merely grunting and mumbling in response to anything said to him. 

Sipping his wine, Charles allowed a small, cool smile to touch his lips. “Did you really enjoy playing your music for Dr. Watson that much, Sherlock?”

There was a flash of obvious irritation in the cold grey of his eyes; Sherlock constantly resented the attentive vigilance with which his spouse monitored his behavior. But he bit back any protest he may have been tempted to make, if only because he had learned long before that arguing was a sure path to losing whatever he valued most at the time.

Tension rippled through his dangerously thin frame as he answered softly. “It’s...been some time since I met someone new--outside of your social circle, anyway. I can hardly consider your newspaper sycophants to be friends.” He paused, drawing a breath at the audacity of his own words, struggling to keep his voice level. “It was a different experience, playing for someone who hasn’t already heard everything that I’ve written.”

Charles showed no reaction to the hint of agitation in Sherlock’s tone, his voice thoughtful when he replied, taking another sip of his wine. Sherlock’s guard immediately rose; he knew that his husband almost always had a plan in motion when he spoke like this. “Would you enjoy spending more time with the doctor?” Charles asked lightly, his eyes sharp as they examined the younger man’s face closely.

Sherlock had no doubt that there was a catch. There always was one--or a price, or a consequence--when it came to negotiating with Charles. His unease was visible, he was sure, but he could hardly risk lying now: the desire must be apparent in his face. And even if it wasn’t, Charles always _knew_. Hesitantly, Sherlock nodded.

His husband smiled again, wider this time, those shark-like eyes hard and aware in a manner that clashed unpleasantly with the would-be charm of his smirk. “What would you offer me in return?”

 _Ah, and there it was_. Sherlock’s face spasmed with frustration and dislike, but there was no bargaining; not when he knew exactly what Charles wanted out of a discussion. He couldn’t back out either; if he turned down something he obviously wanted because he did not want to pay the price, then Charles would just raise the cost all the higher the next time that they played this game. There was no escaping--a lesson which Sherlock berated himself internally for needing to re-learn, over and over again.

Sherlock rose slowly and circled around the table, and paused next to the opposite chair, waiting for Charles to initiate. He did so at once, taking Sherlock’s hand and lifting it, kissing his fingers lightly. The younger man’s eyes were hooded, irises turning a dark stormy grey, and with all of his willpower he remained pliant and loose-limbed as Charles pulled gently, forcing him to lean down and accept a kiss from his husband. It was brief, clinical, barely any pressure between their mouths: more an assertion of ownership than anything resembling affection or foreplay.

Charles eased to his feet, his free hand rising to cup Sherlock’s jaw in order to deepen the kiss. Sherlock despised nights like this--when Charles was aiming for more than just his usual fix. When he expected Sherlock to fake it--to reciprocate, to participate--to engage as if he was not furious and trapped, repulsed by his husband’s touch and kisses and the whole of their marital charade.

But he could say none of this out loud. He had, long ago, wasted two years lashing out, and fighting, causing scenes and resisting and rejecting and being difficult--and all it had gotten him was restrictions on his time and his hobbies, and increased supervision, leaving him feeling like a child who had been labeled as “troublesome.”

So Sherlock had stopped. Now he obeyed the letter of the law, if not the spirit. He took what privileges he was given, and though it burned like acid in his veins, he played along, feigned gratitude and subservience...and, if the goal is important enough, he surrendered even to this.

Charles chuckled softly, breaking their kiss to look into Sherlock’s eyes with that hateful, knowing leer. “You’re going to have to do better than that, my dear. Disappearing into your mind palace won’t do; if you would like to get to know the good doctor, then I do require your attention this evening, first.”

Bitterness washed through Sherlock, and he very nearly snapped; nearly pushed away and said that he could not do this, not tonight.

Then the music drifted through his mind again, the soft notes of the piece that he had found the name of after he had stolen Sergeant Murray’s mobile, and hacked into Dr. Watson’s employee file on the Appledore server. He had seen the notes from the captain’s therapist, when John had told her that the song helped him sleep after nightmares about the war.

Sherlock had returned the phone before his theft was discovered, and had asked Murray to inquire if he could have new music to play, including the Irish composition. He had no idea if Charles had read the therapist’s notes closely; if he would know, from watching them the day before, that Sherlock had found a way to do his illicit research. But if he did know, then wouldn’t the punishment for Sherlock’s interest in the doctor be much steeper than demanding he trade sex for time with the soldier? This had been the price for other favors, in the past, it was hardly novel.

No matter what, Sherlock could not be sure, because Charles was a master of manipulation, and he could hardly ask his husband outright. But he remembered John’s face when he had played for him--he recalled the respect and the happiness in the soldier’s lovely, kind blue eyes. Sherlock wanted to see that again. He needed to.

Biting down on all of his angry thoughts, Sherlock nodded, locking his heart away and voluntarily slipping his hand into Charles’. His husband smiled, ignoring the chill of Sherlock’s skin and the stiffness of his fingers as he returned the grip firmly, and turned toward the door that led into his private bedroom.

It was despicable, pretending not to hate being touched this way. Forcing his body to remain relaxed; limbs loose and malleable as he was embraced; his lips parting to accept the kiss that tasted like death in his mind. The nonexistent armor of his daily life was removed, the silk and fine fabric of clothing that allowed him to cling to his dignity whispering apologetically over his skin as he was stripped bare.

And then, harder still, Sherlock couldn’t simply close his eyes and let it happen; he had to participate. He was expected to show enthusiasm, to slide Charles’ pristine black jacket off of his shoulders and place it gently over the chair in the corner, as if he cared. He loosened his husband’s tie with shaking fingers, keeping his eyes down so that Charles wouldn’t comment on the pain that Sherlock knew was undeniably visible in his own minty-grey gaze. He worked open the buttons of the unwrinkled white shirt, holding his breath so as to not let out a displeased sound when the garment was removed, and he was faced with bare skin.

The way that Charles touched him was always so unnerving--so unbearably tender, as if he truly cared for him. Sherlock had always preferred the touch of male hands, the firm certainty and authority in them, but he had never wanted Charles’ hands. It was bizarre to him that the older man could caress him this way, his fingers stroking down Sherlock’s throat and chest as if he cherished him. His hands settled at Sherlock’s waist, guiding him over to the side of the enormous bed. 

He knew how this would go, how it always went. Much as he hated it, at least Charles would respect that nothing short of drugging him senseless would elicit genuine desire on his part. Sherlock surrendered to the motions because he had no choice, no freedom--but he could never trick his body into performing in any way except to receive. The only question, then, was whether he would be on his back tonight, or on top. Unfortunately, Charles almost always insisted that they be face-to-face.

Tonight, it seemed, would be the latter. Of course: this was his price, in order to be granted time with Dr. Watson. He couldn’t earn that by merely laying back and taking it. He had to do most of the work, this time. Bile burned in Sherlock’s throat as he obediently climbed up, moving to straddle his husband’s lap while his hands--still shaking, damn them--rested uncomfortably on Charles’ shoulders, fingers stiffly curling over the curve of lean muscle.

Much as he disliked his spouse's company, though, Sherlock had to give him credit for one small kindness: Charles would never intentionally make this hurt him--not his body, at least. He might see the horror and misery glowing in Sherlock’s turquoise eyes, but he was always very thorough in his preparation, fetching the bottle of lubricant that he kept in the bedside table for these rare nights, and making his fingers more than slick enough before he began opening Sherlock up.

In some far, distant place inside his head, Sherlock supposed that he might enjoy the act of sex immensely, with the right partner. He did enjoy the sensations of it--the deep pressure that built and burrowed deep inside his belly; the little sparks that exploded at the base of his spine whenever his prostate was grazed. If he closed his eyes, his head dropping back in a parody of pleasure so that Charles wouldn’t make him open them again, then he could imagine himself far away, in someone else’s bed, feeling the gentle touch of a lover whom he actually craved this from.

But sometimes, reality simply was what it was. Sometimes he had no choice but to open his eyes, and to look down into the empty, pale gaze of the man whose bed he was sharing. Charles’ hand rose to slip around his jaw, dragging him down into a hard kiss, and between Sherlock’s legs, a third finger twisted inside, brushing over that sensitive, treacherous bundle of nerves and making him whimper into Charles’ mouth at a surge pleasure that he could not pretend wasn’t real, even if he loathed the man giving it to him.

He thought about John’s smile, when Sherlock had asked him to stay. He imagined playing more new songs for the doctor, inventing something on the spot that might convey the feelings that he could never risk voicing--music that might tell Dr. Watson how glad Sherlock was that he ended up in this terrible house, where Sherlock could meet him.

Sherlock clung to that thought, wrapping it inside the same tight fist that remained vise-like around his own heart. He clutched at the promise of making Dr. Watson smile again, even as he shifted forward, resigning himself to his circumstances enough to lower one violently trembling hand between their bodies, nausea bubbling in his stomach as he closed his hand around Charles’ erection. He began stroking, the way that he knew his husband enjoyed the most, before guiding him into place so that Sherlock could sink down, closing his eyes once more and simply fixating on the sensations--on the sweet pressure of being filled, and the agonizing, dangerous fantasy of someday experiencing this with someone other than Charles, someone who Sherlock could actually love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *I honestly don't know how to categorize this closing scene. It's non-con, and yet...Sherlock is interactive, and more or less submitting to it. But it's all manipulation and situational abuse, so...dub-con? Dub/non-con. Blackmail-induced consent. I don't know.
> 
> The song that John finds therapeutic is "Too-Ra-Loo-Ra-Loo-Ral (That's an Irish Lullaby)," originally composed for a musical in 1913. It's not great quality, but here's a violinist performing it: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CgqXGCSf7e0 (Bing Crosby sings a lovely cover of the lyrical version).
> 
> Also: regarding the canon-inconsistency of John's employee file being on an online-server (given Magnussen's preference for keeping all information in his head); for sake of legal purposes, since Bill is an upstanding guy, basic stuff like his staff and housing documents are kept on hard copies and databases.
> 
> Please continue commenting! Your encouragement is literally fueling this story. I don't actually know how it ends yet, and knowing it's being sincerely enjoyed is really motivational!


	5. Solace, I Am Chaos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m sorry that I didn’t introduce myself yesterday. My name is Sherlock Holmes.”
> 
> Chapter title from "Duality" by Set It Off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Basically I dawdle for like three days every damn time I finish a chapter because I am so insecure about my storytelling. Please keep telling me you guys love this story. -_- It motivates me.
> 
> Chapter Soundtrack:  
> -"Duality" (Set It Off); Sherlock  
> -"I’m Not the One" (3Oh3); John  
> -"Joshua" (Simon Curtis) Sherlock
> 
> (Happy weekend!)

When John arrived in the security room the next morning, he was tired, and still slightly on-edge from a sleepless night after his encounter with the mysterious violinist the evening before. To his surprise, Bill was waiting for him at the door. The sergeant nodded briskly in greeting, casting one last glance to the monitors before facing John, his assignment clipboard in hand.

“You may have some new duties,” he informed John, glancing at the sheet thoughtfully. There was a slight twist in his expression, a raised eyebrow and furrowed brow that had John immediately wary. Whatever it was, Bill didn’t seem to have anticipated this job being given to John, or perhaps to anyone. “You’ll be looking after Mr. Magnussen’s husband, for today, at least--not sure how long he’ll need you to.”

John was stunned for a moment, though not at all about the gender referenced. He thought back, trying to recall if he had seen a wedding band on his employer’s hand, but no glint of metal came to mind from his memories of their brief interactions. There hadn’t even been any photos anywhere in the room--the study had possessed no personal details or decor at all, really.

He realized that Bill was still waiting for him to respond, both eyebrows up now as he gave John a pointed look. The doctor knew that expression well; he’d worn it himself, time and time again when he’d cautiously disclosed his own sexuality to others. Bill was braced for disapproval and a possible argument. “I didn’t know Mr. Magnussen was married,” John offered--and as he’d expected, there was a flicker of something politely pleased in Bill’s darker eyes, his shoulders relaxing marginally with relief that John didn’t care if their boss was gay.

John went on, focusing on the more relevant news at hand. “But yeah, that’s totally fine with me. Where’s the husband been, these past few weeks?”

Bill glanced at his face swiftly, the look a little bewildered, as if he assumed John was joking. It was almost similar to the first look he’d given him when John had asked about the violin music, and something uneasy twisted in John’s gut before Bill answered him. “He’s been here all along. Come on, I’ll take you upstairs to meet him.”

The feelings of disquiet and foreboding mounted in John’s chest as Bill clocked him in and then led the way, exiting the security room and heading for the main stairs. As they turned left, John’s lips parted on a silent sigh of unhappiness, and the feeling grew into outright disbelief--and regret--as they moved swiftly down the left-wing hallway, through the enormous glass doors that he had found just yesterday, and back into the beautiful lounge.

He was there again, John’s mystery musician; this time seated in one of the armchairs by the right-side windows near where he had been playing the day before. His pale skin practically glowed in the early morning sunlight filtering weakly through the glass panes, dark hair lighting like an eerie halo around his thin face as he turned his head upon hearing their approach. Today he wore a plain white button-down over the same black trousers, and as his eyes met John’s across the room, the soldier found himself ensnared by the haunting brilliance of his shadowed blue gaze.

Bill merely nodded in respectful greeting to the seated man, who returned the gesture with an almost mechanical indifference that spoke of too-often having similar, silent exchanges with members of the staff. As soon as he had nodded back, Bill tossed John a final glance--his expression turned peculiar, both apologetic and stern, and yet somehow sad, all at once--and then he turned and exited again, leaving them alone together.

John had no idea of what to say. He remained where he was, hovering awkwardly near the doors, staring at the stranger.

The other man set his book down on the small table beside his chair, then stood, moving cautiously closer to John and stopping a few feet away from him. The look on his face was one John had never seen before; it was almost hungry, yet somehow wary and resigned, both curious and anxious simultaneously.

“I’m sorry that I didn’t introduce myself yesterday. My name is Sherlock Holmes.” He smiled at last, and it brightened  his eyes completely, making John’s heart leap as their color paled, the oceanic depths fading to something more ice-like and glittering. “And you’re Dr. Watson. I know all about you, but you’re certainly welcome to tell me whatever you want me to know. I would enjoy the conversation, truthfully.”

John finally found his voice then, though he was a little embarrassed by how lost he sounded when the words began tumbling free. “I...I’m sorry, I had no idea that you were Mr. Magnussen’s husband, when we met yesterday.”

Holmes raised one brow, looking fractionally more guarded as John spoke. Some of the warmth and anticipation bled out of his glasz gaze, the skin around his eyes tightening with discomfort. “I meant that you could feel free to tell me more about yourself, Dr. Watson.”

John opened his mouth to reply, to apologize; but then he thought better of it. Holmes did not want to talk about his husband, and it was hardly a newly-hired bodyguard’s place to challenge that. John nodded, finally working a quick, small smile onto his own face, and the moment of tension between them broke. Holmes turned back toward his chair, and John followed him hesitantly, unsure of what else he ought to do.

He did remain standing, however, merely shaking his head politely when Holmes gestured to the second armchair in invitation. Holmes did not pick his book back up, looking up at John expectantly, and abruptly he recalled that he had been asked a question of sorts. “Uh, well, there’s not really much worth saying about myself, I’m afraid,” John said, chuckling uncomfortably.

He was very curious as to why Sherlock did not share his husband’s last name, but he could hardly bring himself to so immediately forget his own decision not to disregard the man’s obvious disinclination to discuss it by asking him outright.

Holmes gave a soft laugh of his own, the sound as gentle and melodious as the music that he had brought out of his violin. John found himself disconcertingly enchanted by it. He needed to get himself under control. Shaking off the pleasure that threatened to bring a smile to his face at the sound of Holmes’ laugh, John focused on what was being said to him.

“Well, that’s just simply not so, Dr. Watson.” Holmes leaned back in his armchair, crossing his legs gracefully and steepling his fingers together as he regarded the doctor over the long, pale digits. “You’re a soldier, obviously--formerly stationed in either Afghanistan or Iraq?”

John made a small, startled noise, and when Holmes paused to raise an eyebrow curiously at the sound, John cleared his throat in order to speak, struggling to keep his voice level. “Did you--you’ve read my file?”

The question merely made Holmes smirk slightly, the corners of his eyes crinkling handsomely with genuine amusement. “No. I read it in the tan lines on your neck and wrists, and in that psychosomatic limp of yours. Which was it, if I may ask? The country,” he clarified, as if asking about the weather. 

John was utterly at a loss. It was only then occurring to him that Sherlock Holmes was something much different than he had assumed him to be during their first exchange--and he was most certainly not like anything, or anyone, whom John had ever encountered before. He appeared to be something far more extraordinary.

“...Afghanistan,” John finally replied, a touch of wonder in his tone.

“Indeed.” Holmes only looked vaguely pleased that he had been correct, as if there had been very little chance that he would not be. “Clearly you’ve only recently returned from service--and you prefer to be called Dr. Watson, not Captain, so you’re also an army doctor. It’s a shame that you were injured, you must have been invaluable.” He gave John another far-too-knowing look-over, his eyes sharp as blades as they trailed over John, and for a moment the doctor felt very much as though he were completely exposed, despite his uniform and layers of military equipment.

He was tense, and he could feel it leaking into his voice, nerves thrumming as he asked, “What did you mean by ‘psychosomatic’?”

Holmes shrugged in response, his gaze sliding away from John’s and dropping to his own hands, now folded neatly on his crossed legs. “Your limp was pretty bad when you came to work here, all things considered--but you still took work in private security, and you no longer use your cane while you’re on duty. You also didn’t accept the chair when I offered, like you’ve forgotten about the injury or the supposed pain it caused.”

Despite his bewilderment--despite the rising certainty that he was out of place in this room and in the presence of this exceptional man--John could not stop the grin that began to spread across his face. “You got all of that just from  _ looking _ at me? That’s amazing.”

One of Holmes’ eyebrows rose again, as if he were amused by John’s reaction, but there was a flash of undisguised delight in his shimmering eyes that he failed to hide. “Do you think so?”

“Yes, of course it was,” John said, giving in to the desire to bark a quiet laugh, more than a little awed by the cleverness of it.

“Hmm.” Holmes smiled more easily, clearly pleased and just a touch smug--rightfully so, John had to admit--and then he leaned back in his chair, hands breaking apart to rest lightly on the armrests. “It’s been quite a while since I met anyone who didn’t just say, ‘Piss off.’”

That made John laugh again, louder and more firmly, the sound both bewildered and amused. Holmes grinned broadly in return, looking absolutely delighted with himself for managing to make John laugh twice in so many minutes.

As his laughter quieted, John’s eyes jumped back to the violin, sitting back on its stand next to the window behind Mr. Holmes. His expression softened at the memory of the lullaby that Holmes had played for him. “Have you written anything new today?” he asked, hoping that the other man would be happy that he asked, and not irritated.

Sure enough, the man’s eyes brightened, and he rose in a fluid movement to go and fetch the instrument. After checking the tuning briefly, with the ease and comfort of a well-practiced player, he raised the bow to the strings, those iridescent eyes meeting John’s over the chestnut curve of the violin’s frame.

The tune that flowed from his fingertips, vibrating out of the strings and resonating through the air between them, was unfamiliar to John. Judging from the way that Holmes closed his eyes, leaning into the sound and occasionally frowning very slightly as if the notes displeased him--they all sounded perfect to John--he had a feeling that it wasn’t an existing song, but rather an improvisation, a new composition.

He was sure he was right, even more so when Holmes’ gaze refocused, and he met John’s eyes with something both haunting and hopeful in his face, as if asking silently if John understood the song. The doctor tilted his head, letting the sounds wash through him, processing the feelings beyond every note he heard.

It was excited, but not agitated; the melody drifted from something bubbling with laughter to something soft and sweet, almost questioning, before swooping into longer notes of quiet, reflective murmuring. It was an entire conversation dictated into musical measures, tentative and eager and yet somehow edged with deep melancholy--and it was beautiful.

John beamed at the other man, hoping that his appreciation for the piece was evident as he stepped closer, leaning against one of the empty armchairs and simply relaxing into the rhythm of Holmes’ playing. For his part, the taller man looked relieved, returning John’s smile and then losing himself back into the playing, his eyes eventually drifting closed as his fingers danced agilely over the frets.

When he eventually stopped playing, some long, meaningless amount of time later, Holmes put the violin away and returned to his chair and book. He glanced up at John as he settled into his seat, taking in the slight shifting of the doctor’s weight, his joints stiff after standing still for too long. “You really are welcome to sit, you know,” Holmes commented, smiling faintly, but now the expression was tinged with something self-deprecating and perhaps a little bitter. “I’m afraid you’re going to find guarding me frightfully boring; I rarely leave this side of the house.”

John was startled by that, though he attempted to school his face to remain more or less polite. “You don’t even go outside for some fresh air? Or, I don’t know, into town, or anything?”

For a split instant, a pained look flickered across Holmes’ face, and there were several seconds of awkward silence between them. The seated man’s eyes jumped almost imperceptibly to the corner of the ceiling; and only then, finally, did John notice the camera--and each of the three others, in each of the four corners.

Confusion filled him at once, wondering why on earth Holmes would be so heavily supervised in his own room.

Then the seated man smiled again, a little too widely this time, false cheer ringing fakely in both his face and his voice as he gestured at the opposite side of the room behind John, where there was an enormous balcony visible through the floor-to-ceiling glass windows, and a door in the center of the room that opened out onto it. “I often watch the sunset there, if the weather permits.” Holmes stood again, discarding his book and moving toward that side, with John trailing after him. “I leave the doors open when I can, so that the room stays light and fresh. It’s my favorite part of the house, this room.”

John considered this information, watching the way that Holmes studied the extensive lawn impassively through the glass. Whatever was keeping this man here, John had the distinct sense that it was not to be discussed.

But he had been assigned to be here, and Holmes did not seem displeased with his presence. Perhaps, even if he could not comprehend why anyone would choose to live like this, John could be of some use to another lonely soul. 

He cleared his throat, smiling sincerely when Holmes’ gaze returned to his face. “Would you mind if I read as well, while I’m in here with you?”

Holmes’ face broke into another genuine smile, and he nodded eagerly. Gesturing for John to follow after, he led him into the far hallway at the end of the main room. Here, beyond the soothing natural light of the glass atrium, there were three doors, all currently closed.

Noticing John’s mild confusion as he glanced around the dimly lit hallway, Holmes shrugged. “This is ‘my’ wing of the house. There--” He nodded at the door on the left. “--is my lab; I enjoy science immensely. The last door at the end is my bedroom. And to the right...” He opened the door, revealing a small, dark library, with a small desk and one large armchair beside an unlit lamp. 

Holmes’ smile was tighter now, his eyes nearly black under the shadows of the room as he glanced around the tiny space. “You are welcome to anything in here, at anytime. And I’ll ask about having newspapers sent to the lounge, if you’d like.”

John nodded politely, but his mind was whirling, and he desperately wanted to ask some of the questions pounding inside his head. He was utterly nonplussed by Holmes’ total seclusion--he had a private bedroom--home, really--away from his husband, and from the way that Bill had essentially just deposited John up here, no conversation with Holmes at all, John got the impression that the rest of the staff must rarely enter this wing. How often did Holmes actually speak to other people? Even those who lived in the very same house as him?

The radio on John’s belt buzzed, indicating a summons, and John stepped back from Holmes with a quick, apologetic look at him before answering it. “Yeah.”

Bill’s voice crackled through. “Come on back downstairs for a check-in.”

John exhaled, muttering his confirmation, then turned back to Holmes as he clipped the radio back into its place. “I’ve--Sergeant Murray needs me,” he said to excuse himself, surprised by his own uncertainty.

Holmes merely nodded, his gaze sliding away from John and back to roaming over the barely-visible bookcases around him.

John swallowed roughly as he moved to leave, feeling a distinct touch of sadness trickle through his chest, his stomach tightening painfully as he turned his back on Holmes, who looked so very alone, standing in the center of the darkened library.

* * *

Downstairs in the security room, Bill was typing rapidly on the tablet he carried with him at all times. He barely glanced up as John entered, returning his attention to the screen almost immediately. “John. Good. I just wanted to make sure that you don't mind the additional duty. We’ve never had an assigned guard for Mr. Holmes before, but Mr. Magnussen thinks it may be beneficial.” He shrugged, finishing his task and setting the tablet aside before focusing his gaze on John. “If you don't object, it may become your primary service.”

John nodded at once, chewing his lip for a moment as he worked out a suitable response. “I don’t mind at all. Sher--Mr. Holmes seems easy enough to get on with.”

To his surprise, Bill just snorted at that, grabbing the tablet again and making another note. The sergeant rarely broke his professional stoicism when they were at work, but there was an odd twist to his lips now, as if he could not imagine what John meant by his compliment toward the man one floor above them.

He hesitated for the count of several heartbeats, weighing the odds of getting a positive response, but now that he actually knew who was up there, John had hopes that he might be allowed to ask more questions. He would save them for Holmes himself, but something about the man seemed so fragile and...helpless. John could not bring himself to challenge Holmes’ refusal to discuss his marriage. “Why, exactly, does Mr. Magnussen’s husband live in his own wing of the house?” he asked Bill, bracing himself for further evasion.

Bill stopped typing again, looking up at him, and seemed to calculate his words for a long while before he answered. “Both gentlemen enjoy their personal space and privacy, and in a house this size, it’s hardly problematic. It just works out that way.” The sergeant shrugged then, and the matter was closed, but John’s mind continued whirling with frustration and curiosity.

Then Bill grinned, startling him by the abrupt change in mood. “Well, hey. Since the job seems to be working out for you, I think it’s high time that you knew about the Yard. It’s a pub, about ten minutes drive into London, and it’s the staff favorite for nights off. Years ago they nearly shut down, and Mr. Magnussen lent them the money they needed to stay in business--purely out of charity. Now it’s thriving again, and they always treat Magnussen’s staff to anything, on the house. Just show your security badge. You’ll soon think of it as his home-away-from...well, work,” he said, chuckling wryly.

John laughed as well, appreciating the notion, although he was still itching to press for the story behind their employer’s marital arrangement. Holmes had been visibly unhappy with his restricted existence, but whose choice was it for him to be so secluded? His own, or his spouse’s? And why would Bill speak of him like he was some sort of embarrassing secret? 

“That sounds grand,” John said out loud, not wanting to expose his fixation with their prior conversation. “Though on that note, how do we leave the estate, considering that they don’t allow cabs through the gate?”

Bill nodded, setting the tablet down for good and gesturing them both out of the security room. “Mr. Magnussen has a  _ lot _ of cars. You go outside and tell Wilkes that you’re going into town, and he’ll call one around front for you. You’ll receive a pager that you can use to notify the driver when you want to be picked back up. It’s a pretty sweet system.” He checked his watch, gesturing toward the front door. “Now, let’s head outside and join the boys for a few rounds, and perhaps wow those youngsters with tales of our days overseas.”

* * *

First thing when John checked in the next morning, Bill directed him upstairs to see Mr. Magnussen. By now, clad in his uniform and armed with the confidence of a successful first few weeks of work, John found himself much less afraid of his employer as he knocked sharply on the dark wood, opening the door when Magnussen called out.

Magnussen seemed to be in excellent spirits, today. “Good morning, Dr. Watson.” He gestured toward the tea tray waiting readily, and John nodded his gratitude, surprised by the familiarity in Magnussen’s treatment of him. The man was all smiles, small and polite and somehow knowing, as he poured a cup and offered it to John.

“I’m delighted that you’ve settled in so well,” he said pleasantly, taking his own seat and sipping at the tea. He glanced down at his desk, sharp grey eyes settling on the letter that he had set down as John entered; then he nudged it aside, giving John his undivided attention. “And I do hope that you didn’t find it at all too trivial, keeping Sherlock company yesterday afternoon.” 

John tried immediately to mask his unease that this subject was why he’d been summoned in here. His mind leapt to the cameras in Holmes’ lounge, wondering suddenly if it was Magnussen, and not the security team, who monitored the lonely man living in his indoor garden. “Not at all, no, he’s...he’s really quite something. Sir.”

Magnussen’s smile widened ever so slightly, and John could not have shaken the mental comparison to a shark to save his life. He desperately hoped that his disquiet did not show too obviously in his expression. Magnussen leaned forward, resting his elbows lightly on his desk and folding his hands as he nodded slowly. “He is, indeed...I was quite fortunate to find him.” 

There was a slight, distinctive pause, tension flickering into life between the two men at the thinly veiled reminder that Holmes belonged to Magnussen. John’s throat flexed soundlessly as he swallowed, sipping his tea just for something to do, a reason to move his hands.

Then Magnussen chuckled, breaking the awkwardness of the moment, and swirled his cup absently before drinking again. His other hand moved languidly, fingertips gliding over the smooth surface of his desk with a faint tremor that betrayed the amusement that lined his voice. “I would like to have Sergeant Murray assign you to Sherlock as a permanent bodyguard and companion, if you’re amenable to that. I think that it would benefit him to have a regular companion, especially one who lives on the property.”

John hesitated, but there did not seem to be any hidden agenda in the proposal. Nor did there appear to be any more of the hinted threat that he thought he had heard before. Cautiously, feeling as he was standing at the edge of a precipice looking down into the abyss, John nodded. “I...would be happy to perform that service, sir.”

That had Magnussen positively beaming at him, though his eyes remained dead and unaffected, dampening the impact of the expression. “Delightful. That’s all settled, then.”

When John was dismissed, Bill was not there to send him anywhere. He supposed, with no other instruction, that he ought to go back across to the left wing, and to Sherlock Holmes. As he headed that direction, John found himself chewing his lip anxiously, wondering just what the hell he had gotten into by working in this mausoleum-like house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I gotta say, the praise I get on my characterization of Magnussen is just straight-up flattering as all heck. I do love my villains.


	6. Looking for Someone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "John had never seen a case like Sherlock Holmes, and he found himself unable to put his worries to rest."
> 
> Chapter title from "Is It You" by Cassie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter soundtrack:
> 
> -"Unwell" by Matchbox20; Sherlock  
> -"Roll to Me" by Del Amitri; John  
> -"Is It You?" by Cassie; Sherlock
> 
> OKAY so an important note: from here out, my outline is actually incomplete, so the delaying will continue as I finalize how the rest of the story plays out. On the PLUS SIDE, I do KNOW now how the story will go, so--don't worry! It is all upcoming! <3

As Mr. Holmes had predicted during their second conversation--or Sherlock, John corrected himself, as the man had insisted that John call him by his first name, given that they would apparently be spending most of their time together for the foreseeable future--being his bodyguard was fairly quiet work for the former soldier, even more so than what he had already been doing.

Mr. Magnussen’s descriptive term of _companion_ did seem to be the more accurate word for his new role within Appledore London. It seemed that Sherlock spent his days in solitude, and often silence; he would spend endless spans of time reading or writing, or composing music in his chair by the window; and he could play his violin for hours upon end.

John might have just called that true dedication to his instrument--if it weren’t for how often the music slipped, and took on a melancholy and plaintive quality. Or the occasional flashes of pain or regret he would catch sight of in the taller man’s face as he poured himself into his playing, swaying in the watery sunlight streaming in through the glass beside them.

Sometimes Sherlock would draw, as well--and more than once, seated in the armchair opposite the dark-haired man and reading whatever book or article had caught his fancy, John would spot the flicker of the other man’s otherworldly blue-green eyes cutting toward him as Sherlock drew. This prompted John to suspect that he himself was featured in a few of the sketches that he never caught a glimpse of.

In those moments, he didn’t comment, though he knew his cheeks were no doubt a touch warmer as he tried not to squirm under the intensity of Sherlock’s scrutiny. With anyone else, he might have viewed it as impertinent, not asking if he was comfortable with being used as a model--but Sherlock was different. In a bizarre way, John found himself almost flattered by the fascination that the younger man seemed to have with him, both physically and mentally.

They did talk, throughout the hours spent together each day, but their conversations almost always had an unnerving tendency of leaving John feeling as if he had been speaking for ages, and yet somehow, nothing of substance had been said. Sherlock was insatiably curious about him; he wanted to hear John’s stories, to know about his family and his life, his personal history and his military years--but he was never invasive. His questions were insightful and inquiring, yet not so probing that John felt uncomfortable.

Instead he found himself happy to respond, describing his memories as well as he could, and letting the other man’s more eloquent, well-read vocabulary fill in the gaps as Sherlock questioned various events and thoughts more deeply. There were constant rabbit trails in their discussions, as well; stories of John’s soldiering days prompting questions about his political views, and what he thought of the war he had served in and the motives behind it; when Harry and Clara were spoken of, Sherlock was curious about the level of acceptance John had observed in Harry’s coming out--and he seemed oddly relieved by John’s personal disclosure, and the fact that the Watson siblings had only ever received love and affirmation from their parents about their romantic preferences.

Even the existence of John’s medical license led to several hours’ debate about the current climate of healthcare, both in England and across the UK; a subject on which Sherlock seemed to have an extraordinary number of opinions, for a man who had never attended medical school. John found his passion for the topic invigorating, and his self-taught knowledge base of modern medical practices both expansive, and fantastic.

The only awkward moments that ever rose between the two men during their long, idling days in the lounge happened if John ever attempted to gain personal information in return. Sherlock ranged from monosyllabic to nonresponsive about his own origins and family, and quickly took to outright ignoring questions about his marriage to Charles.

He never showed an ounce of hesitation to discuss his literary or artistic interests--and John suspected that, should he remain positioned here long, Sherlock might just attempt to teach _him_ to play something on the violin--but anything beyond the realm of Sherlock’s bohemian interests and hobbies remained unanswered, and shrouded in mystery.

Even the level of security in his wing of the house was left unexplained, though when John commented on it, at least Murray did not pretend to have not heard him. He showed John which monitor in the security station was set to show Sherlock’s rooms, and informed him that the recordings reset at midnight each night, deleting the day before; if no one was watching, or checked by the middle of the night, then the information was gone.

Once or twice, John would pause to watch the small, four-way screen before or after making his way up to see Sherlock; but it appeared that the man followed the same quiet, reclusive routine with or without companionship, only leaving his corner by the window in order to fetch something from the library; step out onto the opposite balcony, if it was a warm enough day; or retire to his bedroom--though John did notice that Sherlock only used that room very late at night, going to bed at odd hours and always rising early. The bedroom appeared to be of least importance to him, compared to the library and the lounge.

Even Sherlock’s meals were taken at the little table between the two armchairs, brought up to him by a pleasantly matronly-looking woman whom John never seemed to actually catch in the rooms, but Murray told him she was Sherlock’s personal housekeeper, a woman called Mrs. Hudson.

John briefly debated asking if he ought to remain with Sherlock over lunch now and then, rather than returning downstairs to eat with the security teams, but in the end he chose not to bring it up. Some days, it almost felt as if Sherlock needed that hour-long reprieve from even John’s company, as if any social interaction at all was simply too taxing for the man, living in his luxurious, glass-walled cage upstairs.

In the end, what troubled John most was the subtlety of Sherlock’s apparent sadness. He lived well, in his lounge filled with its natural light and the almost-fairytale-esque garden--which, it turned out, he tended himself. Whatever Sherlock wanted for amusement was provided for him, and his already-eclectic library began to further expand from the very day John began sitting with him, as Sherlock took his recommendations and added more fiction and novels for John’s benefit, always eager to discuss them with his guard when he finished one that John was familiar with.

He was not much of a television watcher, but he did have one in the library, and sometimes the two of them would retreat there, occupying the recliners and watching whatever caught John’s eye over tea and sandwiches.

Despite all of this, Sherlock never appeared to gain much weight, remaining skeletal and lean, and John found himself more and more concerned by it. The signs of depression that he thought he spotted were minor, and quickly covered; for all his enthusiasm about getting to know John, Sherlock was clearly very determined that his own feelings--the ones that truly mattered, that was--be left very much alone.

It occurred to John, during one such moment as he watched Sherlock playing a Vivaldi piece--and that was ignoring the humorous fact that Sherlock had been inadvertently educating him, and John could now recognize a composer just by the style of the music--that perhaps this, the unspoken air of despondency that seemed to linger over Sherlock, was why the rest of the staff had been so resistant to his questions, before John had discovered Sherlock by his own devices. That it wasn’t some dark secret so much as the simple, tragic fact that the man who lived in the left wing was helplessly unhappy, and the staff had become accustomed to protecting him in his private, lonely world.

He might even have bought that explanation, and contented himself with the “case” being closed--if not for the ravenous way that Sherlock always absorbed his attention. The way the other man seemed so hungry for John’s words and smiles; wanting his thoughts on everything that came up between them; how he became more lively when he intentionally played his violin for John, as opposed to simply filling the air with whatever music he had the pages to at the time.

John had never seen a case like Sherlock Holmes, and he found himself unable to put his worries to rest.

It took three weeks for Sherlock to seem sufficiently satisfied by all that he had learned about John, and by then they had settled into a comfortable routine together. Whether they read in silence, then later discussed a mutual reading; or whether they played chess, which Sherlock was absolutely delighted to discover that John was not entirely rubbish at (“All of the staff here is, I haven’t had a decent game in _years._ ”); or if John sat in quiet happiness, listening to Sherlock play as if every song was the first he had heard; whatever their activity, the days rolled by pleasantly, and John found he had never been so at peace as he was when he was with Sherlock Holmes.

One morning, after John had checked in and was preparing to go upstairs, Murray caught him before he left the security station. “John,” he said in greeting, then nodded toward the front door. “There’s some packages arrived for Mrs. Holmes, if you don’t mind taking them up with you.”

John nodded, surprised; of course he had known that all of the books, gardening supplies, and music, etc, had to be sent for when Sherlock asked for them--but he had never seen their delivery. Things seemed to simply appear upstairs, between one day and the next. He followed Murray into the foyer, raising his eyebrows at the neat stack of variously-sized boxes waiting on a trolley beside a delivery man.

“He’ll take you up,” Murray informed the man, then turned back to John. “It’s his new lab supplies. Mr. Holmes likes doing science projects, research and whatnot, in the lab across from his library. All of this--” He gestured at the packages in their tidy little tower. “--is whatever he’s asked for most recently. But he’s not allowed to be in there alone, so you’ll need to join him to supervise, alright?”

Bemused--and slightly taken aback by the childishness of suggesting that a man with Sherlock’s intelligence and capabilities would require chaperoning--John just nodded, glancing toward the ceiling as if he could see through it into the rooms above. “Sure. Uh, is the lab--locked, right now?”

Murray held up a new keycard, this one unmarked or numbered. “It stays in here--until he says he’s done with whatever he’s playing with up there, you can collect it from me when you sign in each day.” He gestured to the delivery man, and John nodded again mutely, turning to lead the bloke up to the left wing.

When he entered the lounge, followed by the trolley full of boxes, Sherlock leapt up from his armchair, his expression transitioning from obviously delighted by John’s arrival, to outright thrilled when he saw the packages. “Did Murray give you the key?”

Blinking, John nodded, biting his lip as he struggled to keep his thoughts to himself. He had never seen Sherlock look quite this excited, even about a satisfying book, or a particularly vigorous debate. Sherlock turned away from him at once, leading the way into the much-darker hallway, and John followed with the delivery, frowning slightly as he moved to slide the keycard through the slot beside the one door he had not yet seen behind, in Sherlock’s rooms.

The look on Sherlock’s face made his heart stutter a little inside his chest as the door swung inward, the light coming on at once--it must be on a motion sensor--and John squinted slightly at the unexpected rush of illumination. It was a much brighter light than those in the library or bedroom, almost clinical--but the reason became clear at once, as John followed Sherlock into this new space.

It truly was a laboratory, furnished with a handful of counters and steel-topped tables, three different double-wide sinks, and lined with cupboards of what appeared to be standard medical and technical equipment. Sherlock was rolling up his sleeves, grabbing a notebook off of one of the shelves before he turned to gesture at where the delivery man could deposit the boxes.

“Thank you,” John managed to tell the fellow, since Sherlock appeared completely uninterested in anything beyond getting his packages open. The man gave John a tired smile as he retreated, and with sudden cold discomfort, John realized that it was probably always the same man; permitted not only into Appledore London, but all the way up here into the left wing, to bring Sherlock his supplies.

He turned back toward the man himself as the door swung silently closed behind the delivery bloke, something small and frightened tugging at John’s heart as he watched Sherlock unloading and arranging various items. Some were familiar to John, others less so; but he did not approach, just watched as Sherlock vanished inside his own mind, occasionally muttering and murmuring under his breath, frequently stopping to make extensive notes in his book as he puttered. Whatever it was he was working on, it had his completely focus, and he seemed to forget that he was not alone in the room as he went about his work.

This process was repeated over the next several days. John would receive the keycard and go upstairs, where Sherlock would be waiting, on his feet and always almost vibrating with excitement, to lead the way back to the cold white room, where he would almost immediately seem to dismiss John from his thoughts, losing himself in what he was doing. John would sit on the stool by one of the lab tables, watching him moving and wondering what on earth required supervision about this.

When Sherlock’s concentration finally seemed to break, after five days, he looked around until he found John, and his entire body seemed to relax slightly. “I’ve been waiting to finish this one for months,” he commented, gesturing to the notebook that he appeared to have now filled most of. “Had to put it aside when my last shipment ran out, and Murray became too busy to stay in here, anyway. It’s expensive equipment,” he added, his tone similar to that of a child trying to resign themselves to an unwanted decision made by a parent. “Had to wait before I was able to order more.”

Watching the play of excitement--and sadness--that danced over the taller man’s face, John finally had to break his silence.  “Why on earth aren’t you in charge of your own lab key? If this is another one of your hobbies?”

Sherlock glanced up at him from over his microscope, his eyes tightening fractionally even as he smiled at the soldier. “It’s just...complicated.”

John opened his mouth, wanting badly to push the subject, but Sherlock had looked back down, his impossibly thin shoulders scrunching in somewhat as he resumed his work, appearing less at ease than before. A small sigh escaped John; he was learning, slowly, when not to push with Sherlock.

* * *

During their next obligatory dinner, Charles watched Sherlock intently; and for once, Sherlock paid the scrutiny no mind, ignoring the steely weight of his husband’s gaze upon him as he ate quietly.

Finally, Charles leaned back in his chair, his finger tracing absently around the rim of his wine glass as he spoke. “I’m quite pleased by how lively you’ve been, lately.”

Unsure of what to say in reply, Sherlock remained silent; he had no desire to voice how much happier John’s companionship had made him in recent weeks. Since he knew that Charles watched them frequently on the monitors, he had no doubt that his spouse was aware of it.

Watching him continue his meal wordlessly, Charles eventually lifted one hand, extending it palm-up. “Sherlock, come here.”

It only took the younger man a heartbeat to decide that fighting the point would be useless, as always, and after a moment Sherlock obediently stood and moved around the dining table, accepting the outstretched hand, and managed not to flinch at the damp touch of his husband’s skin.

Charles tugged gently; and although his back went slightly rigid with the urge to rebel, Sherlock did nothing more to resist or pull away as he was drawn into a kiss.

When their lips parted again, Charles was smiling vaguely, watching his husband’s face closely. “Tomorrow, if you would like to, you may go into town.”

Sherlock’s mouth fell open in surprise, his eyes widening before he caught himself, and tried to neutralize his reaction. “Do you mean that?”

His spouse chuckled, releasing his hand, to Sherlock’s inward relief. “I do, yes. _If_ you promise to behave yourself, and to come back home when I call. Dr. Watson will escort you, with a few others from his security team.”

Despite his best efforts, Sherlock could not hide his excitement, and he returned at once to his seat to finish eating, his appetite clearly increased.

Charles made a note of it, grey eyes impassive as he watched his husband closely.

* * *

Once more, Murray greeted John at the door, his face making it clear that the routine was changing again for the day. “You’re taking Mr. Holmes into town today.” He nodded past John, to where four of their men stood nearby, their uniforms simplified to something a little more casual and civilian-safe. “They’ll be your team for the day. Just back-up; you’re in charge of him.”

From the Sergeant’s tone, John could tell that Sherlock going out was highly unusual; though he was hardly surprised, given the man’s reaction when he had mentioned it on their first day together, and his lack of bringing the idea up ever since then. John did not argue; personally, he thought it would do Sherlock wonders to get out of the house.

Heading upstairs in a far more casual getup than he’d become used to donning each day, John found Sherlock waiting for him, handsomely dressed in an expensive blue coat, black scarf, and leather gloves. His glasz eyes brightened at once when he spotted John, and he came to meet him, not seeming to notice the way that John’s steps stuttered at the sight of him, or the way his lips parted as he found himself struck mute.

Of course, he had already been aware that Sherlock was a very attractive man; but John had become used to the borderline casualness of the man’s simple regular outfits, his nice shirts and plain pants, so seeing him outfitted for the real world was...different.

John didn’t find his voice again until they were in the car, gliding quietly out of the gates and turning toward central London. He noticed Sherlock’s face, however; the way his eyes tracked hungrily over the outside world as they passed through it, his expression devoid of any emotion, and finally curiosity won over.

“What’s this trip about, then?” John asked softly, and he caught the way that Sherlock shivered slightly, coming back to himself and turning to give John a small smile, though his voice remained distracted.

“It’s been a long while since I was out in London. I don’t necessarily need to go, at the moment--but if Charles allows it, I’ll never say no.” He turned back toward the window, and his voice became quieter. “Thank you for agreeing to escort me.”

John could only nod in response, unsure if Sherlock saw it in the reflection of the glass, but unable to bring himself to speak out loud.

They spent the morning doing oddly tourist activities, to John’s great amusement; Sherlock wanted to wander Piccadilly Circus and to visit the Eye, simply walking along and taking things in. Whether he had memories to relive in the city, or simply wished the absorb this information as he did with every other learning experience, John didn’t know, but he remained faithfully by the other man’s side, watching Sherlock watch the world around him.

Eventually they made their way to Baker Street, and Sherlock knocked on the door of a flat beside a little deli, where John was startled to learn that his housekeeper, Mrs. Hudson, resided. She was clearly stunned to see Sherlock, but welcomed them warmly, ushering them inside and inviting them to tea at once. The security staff remained in the hallway, stiff and disinterested, but John followed willingly enough when Sherlock smiled at him and led the way inside.

To John’s even greater surprise, he learned that before marrying Charles and moving into Appledore London, this had been Sherlock’s home, as well; Mrs. Hudson had rented him the flat upstairs, and had been his landlady.

“It’s still empty, up there,” she admitted, chuckling a little sadly as she served them an early lunch. “I couldn’t bring myself to find someone new, not when Sherlock had gone. Your things are still there, too, if you need any of them,” she said, and Sherlock shook his head, not looking up from his tea.

“No, they’re safer kept here,” he replied, smiling lightly. “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. I appreciate you looking after them, for so long.”

“Oh, of course, dear!” She patted his shoulder fondly, beaming at John as she sat down at the head of the little kitchen table. “Sherlock was such a funny, odd sort--I enjoyed having him here, though we never spoke much. Honestly, we didn’t really get to know one another until his brother Mycroft recommended me for work at Appledore! He thought Sherlock would benefit from having a familiar face about, and I can’t say I’ve minded that one bit. I’d have missed him terribly.”

John watched Sherlock’s face closely, seeing the guarded way he closed his emotions down around the sweet woman in front of them--and John’s heart tugged painfully. Sherlock was far from an sentimental man, from what John could tell, but he clearly loved Mrs. Hudson a great deal--and that made John indescribably grateful for her existence.

All in all, it was much like visiting a friend’s mother with them--perhaps objectively a bit awkward, but very pleasant all the same. Eventually they took their leave, Mrs. Hudson insisting that they take a handful of biscuits, and promising to see Sherlock the next day at home.

Sherlock said nothing as they left, though gradually the tension returned to his shoulders, and John swallowed his confusion, unable to bring himself to press on the wound that seemed to have reopened in his companion’s mind as they departed 221 Baker Street.

Having eaten enough to be content, they skipped going out for lunch and instead ended up at the Diogenes Club, and John’s footsteps stuttered to a halt as Sherlock quietly asked to see Mycroft Holmes. “Wait, wasn’t that--is that your brother?” Sherlock merely nodded, looking over at him curiously, and John blinked, looking away as he processed the idea of meeting Sherlock’s family--something he hadn’t even been sure actually existed. “...Alright, then.”

They were ushered into a small, dimly-lit study, where an imposing man several years older than Sherlock was seated behind a large desk, reading quietly. Eyes a slightly paler shade of Sherlock’s ever-changing blue rose to look at them, and the man’s surprise was evident only in the slight rise of one eyebrow, before he stood to greet them.

“Sherlock,” he murmured, stepping around the desk and embracing the younger man. “I am delighted. What’s prompted this, then?”

Shrugging, Sherlock returned the hug perfunctorily, then sank into one of the chairs with an air of something like exhaustion, the stiffness bleeding out of his posture. John watched him in disbelief, stunned to see the almost _normal_ way that Sherlock appeared to behave in his sibling’s presence. “No motive offered; simply permission. Mycroft, this is John--you know about him.”

“I do, indeed,” the older Holmes brother acknowledged, smiling benignly as he turned toward the shorter man. “Dr. Watson, it is a pleasure to finally meet you. Please, make yourself comfortable.”

John sat in the second chair next to Sherlock, unable to hide his incredulity; neither man commented on the bewilderment in his expression. The brothers talked for a while, light and meaningless chatter that didn’t require John’s attentive listening, though he did watch Sherlock as he spoke.

Until today, John had not known that Sherlock had a brother, and observing them together, he couldn’t entirely deduce what the nature of their relationship was; there was a mild sort of petulance in Sherlock’s posture and tone, like any younger sibling who constantly felt put-upon, or overshadowed. But there was also an undeniable fondness, almost a strange yearning in the shifting colors of his eyes, as if Sherlock were just as hungry for his brother’s presence as he was, daily, for John’s.

John was startled out of his thoughts by the muted trilling of a mobile, and Sherlock’s entire body stiffened marginally, his eyes becoming devoid of emotion before he drew the phone out of his coat pocket. Mycroft, too, appeared to close down, looking away with polite disinterest as Sherlock answered the call with a quiet murmur of greeting.

When he hung up, John raised an eyebrow. He had never, in all of the past weeks, seen Sherlock with a phone, and the normalcy of the sight was unsettling. Sherlock offered him a tired smile. “We’re needed back. Home.”

John nodded, standing and instinctively reaching to touch the other man’s elbow, helping him rise before the soldier realized that of course Sherlock did not require his physical assistance. He ignored his own slight flush, turning hastily to accept Mycroft’s brisk handshake, and when Sherlock had bid his brother goodbye, John followed him quietly out of the office, where their security detail fell in behind them.

As they walked back to where the car was meeting them, Sherlock spoke, his voice still as soft and thin as it had been in his brother’s study. “I...appreciated your companionship today, John. Thank you for coming with me.”

There was something dark and empty in his gaze, more so than it had been previously, and John’s breath caught slightly, wondering if perhaps he had been wrong; perhaps it would have been better for Sherlock to have not left the house, and to interact with the world outside of his daily bubble.

But he said none of that. John smiled, and put out his hand again to touch Sherlock’s arm, more firmly this time, just above his hand. The slight shiver that rippled through the limb beneath his fingers made him remember himself, and John withdrew his hand, glancing back to be sure that his men had not noticed the exchange. “I enjoyed it, Sherlock,” he assured the taller man. “I enjoy being with you.”

The answering smile was still faint, but there was unmistakable relief, and hope, in Sherlock’s crystalline eyes, as if John’s contentment was the only thing that could possibly matter to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a heads-up; in the future, if a chapter contains potentially triggering content, I will put warnings in the end-notes, and mention the possibility of it in the opening notes, so you may click to check if you need to. :)
> 
> Also, there a specific song that is on the soundtrack for when John and Magnussen finally come to a head, and every time it comes on my iTunes I get super re-psyched for this story. XD


	7. Are You Waiting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “'Generous is one word for it. He likes owning people, that’s all it is.''
> 
> Chapter title from "Falling" by Staind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Soundtrack:
> 
> "Through Glass" by Stone Sour  
> "Falling" by Staind  
> "Save You" by Kelly Clarkson  
> "The Way Down by White Tie Affair
> 
> (It is 1:30 am and I have to be up at 7, so the editing is rough. I will go over this tomorrow and correct typos!)

The moment that they arrived back at Appledore, Wilkes was waiting to greet them in the foyer. He kept his gaze on Sherlock, paying John no mind whatsoever as he delivered his message, seeming as annoyed as always to be doing his job. “Mr. Magnussen is waiting for you in his private dining room.”

Sherlock nodded stiffly in response before he half-turned back toward John, his ice blue eyes once more blank and impassive as he gave the doctor a thin smile. “Thank you again, John. For accompanying me today.”

At John’s somewhat dumbstruck nod of affirmation, Sherlock turned away from him again, moving up the stairs while slowly removing his gloves and coat. Wilkes followed after him without a single word to John, accepting the outerwear items and then separating from Sherlock to head towards the left wing, while Sherlock walked alone to the right, disappearing into his husband’s rooms.

John remained where he was, watching their departure with grim eyes. The transformation that he had witnessed between the moment when Sherlock had been sitting with his brother, talking about nothing significant, and the instant that he had received Magnussen’s call summoning them back to the house, was darkly burned into John’s mind--a stark, cold distinction that he could neither forget nor ignore.

He stood there long enough that Wilkes returned from Sherlock’s wing, one eyebrow rising when he found John still standing right where they had left him, but he gave no other external reaction. “You’re done for the day, Dr. Watson,” the butler stated, his voice dry and dismissive. “You may retire for the night, if you wish. Sergeant Murray will certainly page you if there is any further need for you.”

Still disturbed at how abruptly he had parted from Sherlock, John couldn’t offer a verbal reply, merely nodding and moving mechanically toward the security station in order to check out for the night.

Bill was in there, seated at the monitors with one of the other security men, but he just sent a smile John’s way, clearly having nothing further for him to do. “Have a good night, mate.”

Nodding at him as if moving on autopilot, John clocked out with numb fingers, then left the room.

He paused in the front hall again, hesitant to leave the house right away, as if it would somehow shut him out for good if he did. But there was little more that he could do, and with no appropriate means of checking on Sherlock--he could hardly interrupt his employer during his dinner just to ask if his husband was alright being left alone with him--John resigned himself to making an undoubtedly futile attempt to shed his worries for the night.

Summoning Wilkes back--if nothing else, it was satisfying to see the sour look on the man’s face as he was required to return, and to actually acknowledge John--he called for a car to go into town. Bill’s description of the Yard had piqued his interest, and if there was anything in the world that might help to distract him from his turbulent thoughts, John could only hope that a few pints might succeed. Especially if drinks were on the house for Appledore’s security staff.

When the car deposited him at the curb in front of a small, pleasant-looking establishment out of which music and muted laughter was spilling, John drew a deep breath, then forced his feet to carry him inside.

The Yard had a warm, pleasant ambiance, barely crowded at such an early hour of the evening, with lots of seating and soft, upbeat music playing in the background to underscore the mumbled ripples of conversation.

A dark-skinned woman bounced over to greet him, and John tentatively offered her a smile as she reached for a menu. “Um, hello. I just started working security at Appledore London...I was encouraged to come and give this place a try.”

The woman laughed, nodding her head in confirmation and pushing her thick black hair back from her face before she clapped a hand cheerfully onto his shoulder. “Yeah, absolutely, mate! I’m Sally Donovan--welcome to the Yard. Come on, I’ll introduce you to the owner, he’s the man you’ll want to meet.”

Tugging his arm to lead him, Sally guided John to the bar, placing him at a vacant stool while she headed around behind the counter. “Oy--Greg! C’mere, we’ve got ourselves a new bloke from Appledore. This is Greg Lestrade, he owns the Yard,” she added, and John smiled faintly, offering his hand to the salt-and-pepper-haired man who emerged from the back room, his warm brown eyes lighting up kindly as he returned the doctor’s greeting.

“John Watson, it’s a pleasure,” he said quietly, sensing a kindred spirit at once in the other man.

Greg’s gaze was sharp and intelligent as he shook John’s hand firmly. “Same, yeah. So, Appledore, eh? How’re you liking it out there?” It seemed that John didn’t quite manage to conceal the instant spasm in his expression at the question, because Greg laughed deeply, gesturing to offer him a beer, and pouring a full pint when John nodded gratefully. “That is quite the usual reaction, don’t worry. It’s an odd place, to be sure, but they do have some fine people working out there. I like the sergeant--Murray, he’s a good fellow.”

John nodded in affirmation of the fact, offering a teasing toast as he accepted his beer. “That he is. We were actually army pals, way back before. Years ago. Same unit, he was briefly my commanding officer.”

“Oh, cheers to that, then, must be nice working with an old friend,” Greg said with a chuckle, saluting John with a quick, playful grin. “I was a police detective, myself, once. Retired now, of course, but plenty of good memories from my time on the force.”

“Oh, yeah?” John could feel himself relaxing gradually, put at ease by Greg’s warm demeanor and pleasant attitude. He had none of the stiffness or secrecy that clung to John’s various coworkers at Appledore, and while there was still an air of military efficiency to the pub owner’s behavior, it was clearly force of habit; everything about the man said he had a good nature. After months at Appledore, always holding his breath and never sure if he was getting a full read on anyone, John found himself greatly soothed by this interaction. “What made you start a pub, of all things?”

Greg grinned, polishing a freshly-washed glass and handing it off to Sally to pour another customer a drink. “I’ve always loved pubs. Police work was amazing, but I didn’t want it to consume the rest of my life. To be honest, my commitment to the force actually cost me my marriage, and not long after, I realized I just wasn’t happy giving up my entire life that way. It’s been better, here. I’m happy, and Sally came along--she was a detective under me, for a spell--and now Scotland Yard has an Inspector who properly loves his work.” Greg smiled contentedly. “I’m a much happier man since I started this place."

John nodded respectfully. “It shows. I’ve only just met you and I can already see that this suits you.” He paused, biting his tongue for a moment, but it felt safe enough to at least try. “I certainly don’t mean to be rude--you’re more than free to tell me it’s not my business--but Bill actually mentioned to me that you had some financial difficulty with the Yard, and it’s why you serve Appledore staff specially.”

The older man merely smiled, clearly not offended in the least by his probing. “We did indeed--she nearly got shut down the first year, poor girl,” he replied, patting the bartop fondly. “I had the cash to keep a place running, but it was rough going to get it started, which I suppose is standard for anyone trying to build from the ground up like that. But it all worked out; a mutual acquaintance put me in touch with Mr. Magnussen, and he was generous enough to offer to bail me out. No catch or anything, just said he’d be happy to help.”

Greg shrugged, his eyes soft. “So, I committed to repaying him by serving you folks on the house. Mr. Magnussen’s very mindful of who he employs, and I’ve yet to see a single person abuse the offer of free beer. It’s turned out quite well, overall.”

John could hardly help his curiosity; every detail that he learned about the people surrounding Charles Magnussen simply served to add more questions. “You had a...mutual acquaintance with Mr. Magnussen? From your police force days?”

For a heartbeat, John caught the flicker of something else in Greg’s eyes, something older and almost sad, but it vanished nearly as swiftly as it had appeared. His voice remained completely cheerful when he replied. “Nah. It was his brother-in-law, Mycroft Holmes. Government man, so we had interacted on a few cases that involved state stuff.”

Greg shrugged again, glancing down. “Mycroft was very encouraging when I said I wanted to retire from the force and start this place up, something a little more relaxed for me, and what not. Would’ve bailed me out, himself, honestly, but he’s wealthier in influence than money, and we didn’t need to get caught up in that sort of mess. But Mr. Magnussen had no problem backing me at Mycroft’s request. Real generous of him.”

Behind him, Sally snorted loudly, and ignored the hard look that Greg shot at her as she sidled over to join their conversation. “ _Generous_ is one word for it. He likes owning people, that’s all it is. Already has the Holmes family in his pocket, so why not lap up one of their perfectly ordinary friends who’s got nothing to do with him?”

She rolled her eyes, giving her boss a deeply bemused look. “C’mon, Greg, you know he wasn’t being _kind_ to you. It was just one more thing he’s got to hold over on Mycroft--and even if he sees it as a useless connection, it’s something he’s got over you, now, too. Though I s’pose you’re a link to Scotland Yard, which he undoubtedly enjoys.”

Seeing John’s bewilderment at Sally’s words, which seemed harsh to John even having met Magnussen, Greg hushed her irritably, his brown eyes darkening with anger that seemed out of place on his otherwise kind face. “That’s no way to talk, Sal, be quiet. Mr. Magnussen’s a perfectly decent fellow.”

Someone else stepped out of the kitchen behind them, and Sally stopped the man with a hand on his chest, smirking in a way that clearly spelled trouble. “Oy, Anderson, Greg says Charles Magnussen’s a decent fellow--what do you think?”

The man, Anderson, barked a laugh and shot Greg a pitying glance, not seeming to register that John was unfamiliar to him. “Decently rich, and decently creepy as shite,” he offered, then backtracked when Greg threw his hands up in annoyance. “I know, I know,” he backpedaled hastily, dodging Greg’s hand swatting at him. “Without him, we’d have no Yard. But come on, Greg; he’s bloody awful. Those dead beady eyes, and that total freak husband of his--”

“Quiet,” Greg finally snapped, and at last the other two heeded him, both looking only slightly chastised by the obvious rage in his tone. Anderson hurried off to bus tables as more customers began filtering into the pub, and Sally turned away to serve a few customers, while Greg shook his head, his eyes pinched with regret. “I’m sorry, John--those two really aren’t not that bad, usually.” He sighed, rubbing a weathered hand down his face. “I’m just glad Magnussen never comes in here, himself--I’m afraid they wouldn’t hold their tongues if they saw him in person.”

John was frowning thoughtfully into his pint as he observed all of this. He was about to respond, not wanting Greg to stop talking about Magnussen and Sherlock, but someone else hailed the man, who hastily muttered an apology to John and promised to be right back, before heading down the bar.

Sally returned after a moment or two, and John raised a few fingers to halt her as she flounced past him. “Hey, Sally--if you’re free--can I ask, why’d Anderson say ‘freak?’ About Sherlock, I mean, not Mr. Magnussen.”

Her eyebrows shot up at his use of Sherlock’s first name, but she merely shrugged, rather dramatically, and leaned on the counter. John keeps his eyes studiously on her face, ignoring the full flash of cleavage he was offered by the movement. “Well, have you met him? Holmes, I mean.”

“Yeah, I’ve met them both--the Holmes brothers, I mean,” John answered cautiously, unsure how much of his own affection for Sherlock he should allow to show. “I, uh, I’m actually Sh-Mr. Holmes’ personal bodyguard, now. Just met his brother for the first time today.”

She gave another snort of laughter, shaking her head and giving John an annoyingly sympathetic smirk. “Well, best of fucking luck to you, mate, he’s utterly bonkers. Has this nasty little trick of being able to figure out every damn thing about you, and he makes you feel like you’ve got no secrets safe.”

“Well, that--and he’s completely mentally unstable,” Anderson chipped in with a nasty chuckle, dropping off a bin of dirty glasses behind Sally and seemingly noticing John for the first time, though it apparently wasn’t going to stop his tongue. “I’m honestly surprised he still gets to just wander the house freely, considering that he--”

“Christ Almighty, Anderson, when I say ‘enough’ then I mean ‘enough!’” Greg’s voice interjected thunderously as he reappeared, shooing the man away with both hands and a black look on his face. “Sally, what the hell? I’ve asked you not to talk about him like that, can’t you just--”

“John’s assigned to the wanker as his private guard, he needs to know what he’s in for!” Sally protested, waving Greg off before he could continue fussing at her. She shook her head, reaching over the counter with another uncomfortable flash of too much skin, in order to give John’s shoulder a pat that he supposed she meant to be reassuring, rather than patronizing. “Don’t worry, mate, you’ll be fine. Just another weird-as-hell job, right? We all have to get through them sometimes.”

Greg scowled as she swept away from them, dark curls bouncing against her shoulders. “Fuckin’ hell--I’m so sorry, John. I’ll warn ‘em both off, they can’t be talking like that around customers. Or anyone at all, really, it isn’t right and they know it.”

John’s only reply was a shrug, and he drained the rest of his beer quickly, smiling faintly up at Greg. “It’s alright. I know that Sherlock’s...a bit unusual.”

Greg glanced over at him, brows drawing together in a blend of interest and concern. “The two of you do get on, though? He likes you?” At John’s uncertain nod, Greg almost smiled at him, and promptly poured him another beer. “That figures. Well, I’m very glad, John. Poor bloke needs someone to have his back. Be good to him, alright? He’s had it rough.”

John desperately wanted to ask him more, to probe into just how Sherlock had had it rough; and he wanted to know what Anderson had close so close to revealing. But Greg had a troubled look in his eyes, his formerly smiling mouth twisted into a tight, pained frown, and John let it go for now, not wishing to alienate this new friendship before it had even really begun.

* * *

When John arrived back at Appledore a few hours later, he headed straight back to his own rooms, even managing not to let himself look toward the glass walls of Sherlock’s lounge to see if his lights were still on.

His mind was spinning from the experience of getting a completely outside view of Sherlock--perhaps not objective, what with Sally and Anderson’s hostility toward the younger Holmes, but still definitely novel--and John could not stop thinking about what Anderson had started to say. He was surprised that Sherlock could move freely around the house, considering that he had...what, exactly?

To his surprise, there was a note lying folded on his pillow, the message penned on the expensive paper brief and unsigned. He realized as he read it that it undeniably had to be from Sherlock; in it, he asked that John find some way to convince Charles to let him go into town again, preferably with John’s companionship. There was no explanation, merely the request and a closing thank you.

Perplexed and more than a little disturbed by the cloak-and-dagger feeling of it all, John arrived at work early the next morning, clocking in and then going upstairs to Mr. Magnussen’s office once he had his gear. Knocking lightly, he waited with his heart hammering for the soft summons before he stepped inside.

“Dr. Watson.” Magnussen’s expression was blank, no surprise or consternation whatsoever, as he leaned back in his chair to appraise John as he approached the man’s desk. “What can I do for you?”

John drew a deep, silent breath, bracing himself slightly. “I, uh, I’m sorry for the informality. I just--” John paused, quickly working his thoughts into a manageable order. He needed to keep it together. Whatever reason Sherlock had for wanting him to be the one to ask, John needed to do so as the man’s bodyguard and companion, not some civilian worrying about him. Sherlock needed him to appear certain and calm.

His voice was stronger when he tried again. “I noticed, Sir, that Mr. Holmes seemed a great deal healthier--or at least a bit happier--after we had gone out into town, yesterday. And I wondered if perhaps I might be permitted to take him into London on a more regular basis, maybe once a week or month?” John recognized instantly that his words could be misconstrued as too demanding. “Or whatever schedule you’d prefer, of course, Sir. But I think it would benefit your husband.”

In the back of his mind, John wondered how well Magnussen would recognize the basic methods of manipulation in the word choices he was making. And whether or not he would call the doctor out for them. The man’s eyes were certainly sharp and clear, a half-amused tilt to his thin lips that made John suspect he was being utterly transparent to his employer; but there was no anger, nothing to indicate that Magnussen intended to reprimand him for his attempt.

John couldn’t help but wonder, distantly, if anyone had ever tried to get Sherlock out of the house before.

“I think that’s very insightful of you, Dr. Watson, and I’m sure that my husband appreciates your attention to his health,” Magnussen replied at last, his voice cool, and his accent somehow less pronounced as he spoke the quiet words. “I certainly wouldn’t wish for Sherlock to suffer, spending all of his time in the same handful of rooms, even with such pleasant company as yourself. You may take him into town every other weekend; I will make a note for the car to be made available on that schedule.”

Relief made John’s shoulders begin to slump slightly, and he quickly caught himself, straightening back up to his full height, and he nodded, offering Mr. Magnussen a formal smile. “Thank you very much, Sir, I think it will be good for him. I appreciate your time, Sir.”

He started to turn away, wanting very much to be out of this room, so dark and airless that no amount of open space could make it less claustrophobic; but Magnussen’s voice interrupted him as he crossed the room. "You seem to be quite fond of my husband, Dr. Watson."

John’s steps paused, his spine stiffening and his stomach dropping toward his toes. His mind whirled as he tried to find the words that would formulate an appropriate response to such a statement. There was no explicit threat in Magnussen’s tone, and no reason for John to directly take it as a challenge, and yet he was certain that if he turned to meet the older man’s gaze, he would see the warning in those shark eyes, clear as daylight.

But he could not risk being blatantly disrespectful. John turned back around, a polite and professional smile firmly in place, and inclined his head slightly at his employer. “Mr. Holmes is a very remarkable young man, Sir. I do like him, yes.”

Magnussen’s eyebrow twitched upward ever so slightly, the only outward reaction he showed to the doctor’s reply. That cool half-smile was still firmly on his mouth, and then he nodded, a flicker of his hand indicating his dismissal before he looked down. “I’m glad.”

John managed not to look as if he was outright running away when he turned again to leave, and once out of Magnussen’s study, he crossed the second floor in quick steps, his breathing unsteady. He could feel something hard and tight loosening inside his chest, a genuine smile touching his face as he finally entered Sherlock’s lounge.

Sherlock was tuning his violin, his expression neutral and distracted, but upon John’s entrance he perked up, setting the instrument aside and turning to greet John with a look of interest and unease in his shimmering blue eyes. He didn’t speak immediately, and John knew as if the words were printed on his skin that Sherlock was afraid that he had crossed some sort of line by asking for John’s assistance.

The doctor smiled warmly at him, seeking to reassure the younger man. “We’ll be going into town every other weekend from now on,” he told Sherlock quietly as he crossed the room, picking up the book he’d started reading a few days before, and John couldn’t help his grin when Sherlock’s face lit up at once, his entire body relaxing visibly.

“Thank you, John,” Sherlock said, soft and gentle and laden with far more emotion than the favor he had asked for seemed to merit; but John didn’t argue. He simply nodded, taking his usual seat and letting his gaze linger on the beautiful creature before him.

Sherlock moved to perch on the loveseat next to his chair, resuming a sketch that he had abandoned days before. If he noticed that his foot came to rest against John’s beneath the coffee table between them, Sherlock neither commented, nor did he move it, and John saw no reason to say a word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I owe y'all a pretty huge apology. What with the usual hellish two-year hiatus, I got re-consumed by my old obsession with Supernatural, and it has, annoyingly, really messed with my muse to write Sherlock. I've had me some bad writer's block for this story's outline, which hinders my ability to knock out each individual chapter even when it is plotted out.
> 
> But I promise, it will be done. I love this story deeply, though I feel truly like I'm not doing it justice. It means a lot to me that you are all so vocal about loving it, because it truly keeps me going. <3


	8. Set My Soul on Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Dr. Hooper returned his smile much more easily, her eyes soft. “Well, you’re certainly more than just a bodyguard."
> 
> Chapter title from "Burning" by Garou.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter soundtrack:
> 
> -"Fields" by Adam Lambert; Sherlock POV  
> -"Burning" by Garou; John POV  
> -"Iris" by Goo Goo Dolls; Sherlock POV  
> -"Permanent" by David Cook; John POV
> 
> Goodness, I am sorry. I was TRYING so desperately to get the entirely story outline done before updating the next chapter, because I hate the thought of posting a chapter and then needing to retroactively alter it if a later plot point changes it. But I hate to keep y'all waiting. So, if anything changes that effects this or earlier chapters, I will note that change in BIG letters up here in the notes!

 

In the end, their next weekend trip into London wound up starting much later in the day than John would have anticipated. When he arrived to check in at the security station that morning, Bill stopped him before he could leave to go upstairs, first sending him out on property rounds with the morning team. “Sorry, mate--Mr. Holmes is occupied at the moment. I’ll send for you when he’s ready to have you up, alright?”

John was instantly put on his guard, but he had no choice but to comply with his orders, though worry followed his every step.

Bill did not page him until shortly after noon, by which time John had become tense enough to shatter, wondering what the hell was keeping Sherlock. He could not allow his concern to show, however, as frustrating as that was, and with more resolve and patience than John would have believed he possessed, he endured the morning and even managed quite well not to alienate any of the men in his unit--though he highly doubted any of them missed that something had the doctor uneasy.

The instant that Bill had confirmed he was permitted to, following lunch, John headed upstairs at once, taking the stairs a little faster than was necessary in his haste to return to the lounge.

He was brought up short on the landing, though, by the sight of a woman in a crisp white lab coat emerging from Sherlock’s wing, slinging a stethoscope back around her neck as she walked with a brisk pace that John knew well: that of a doctor in their element, mind on their work.

She stopped, as well, when she spotted John ahead of her; but her face brightened, showing none his own own confusion. “You must be Dr. Watson!” she called in greeting, coming forward and offering a hand to shake, which John accepted with only mild hesitation.

“I’ve heard so much about you from Sherlock,” the woman continued, seemingly unaware of his bewilderment. “I’m Molly, Molly Hooper--Appledore’s on-staff doctor.” She was all smiles and giggles, and John had the distinct impression that she would be the type to always add a small laugh after everything that she said, either out of nerves, or to lighten the atmosphere.

“It’s, uh, a pleasure to meet you,” he managed at last, making sure that his handshake was firmer than his voice had been before he released his grip. “I’m sorry--is Sherlock ill? I wasn’t told why he was indisposed when I checked into work this morning.”

Dr. Hooper blinked, and John immediately caught the way that her eyes tightened very slightly, though her pleasant smile remained fixed securely in place. “Oh--no, he’s well, nothing to worry about. I just come upstairs to check on him frequently, to make sure that he’s eating and doing alright.”

Her throat bobbed in a nervous little swallow, and Dr. Hooper glanced down slightly, her cheeks flushing the faintest shade of pink before she continued. “He, uh, he was feeling a little sore, though, this morning. He...he said he fell down, late last night. He wasn’t injured,” she added hastily, noticing at once when John stiffened at her words, his mouth opening in concern.

“It’s just that--well, sometimes he’s been known to skip meals on purpose, in the past,” Dr. Hooper went on, a look of deep frustration flickering into her hazel eyes. “He used to experience all kinds of dizzy spells as a result, so now whenever something like this happens, I get called upstairs to make sure that his blood pressure is normal, and all that.”

John found himself slightly speechless at her explanation, unbearably agitated by the idea of Sherlock skipping meals. Of course, he had realized that was the most likely explanation; even someone without a medical license could hardly miss how unnaturally thin the young man was--and John was, in fact, a damn  _ good _ doctor.

But to hear confirmation that Sherlock had ever starved himself to the point of fainting from it was far more disturbing than John had expected it to be, even if he had been braced for that reality.

“I’m sorry,” Dr. Hooper said quietly, her eyes intent on his face. “I can imagine that all of that distresses you a great deal to hear about, both as a doctor and as his friend.”

That gave John pause, but after a brief pause he smiled, though the expression was strained. “Friend...yeah. I guess I am his friend.”

Dr. Hooper returned his smile much more easily, her eyes soft. “Well, you’re certainly more than just a bodyguard. He is okay, though, if you wanted to go inside now.”

Nodding in wordless reply, John moved past the young woman and entered the lounge.

For once, Sherlock was sitting at his fountain in the center of the room, watching the water rippling quietly, his glasz eyes reflecting the shimmering surface, unfocused and filled with thought. He glanced up when John entered, though, and offered the doctor a small smile. “Hello, John. I’m sorry for my abrupt non-availability this morning.”

John shrugged in response, crossing the room to sink down on the stone bench beside him. “That’s perfectly fine. Are you alright? Dr. Hooper said that you were in pain.”

Sherlock merely frowned at that, looking away from John again. “Molly just fusses. She’s overly attentive, that’s all. Did you like her?” he added, voice lightening as he redirected the topic.

“Yes.” John despised how evasive his charge was being. “She seemed very lovely. Did you actually fall down, Sherlock?”

The younger man’s eyes narrowed, sweeping back up to gaze at John with clear challenge in their icy depths. “What else are you suggesting might have happened, John?” he asked, his tone a strange cross of threatening and pleading, as if simultaneously asking John both to answer him truthfully, and not to say it at all.

The doctor battled himself for a long moment, internally; and then he sighed, recognizing that he was only going to succeed in alienating Sherlock if he pushed at him like this, nudging at the barriers between them that surrounded the dark-haired man’s private world. “...nothing,” he replied finally, watching Sherlock relax marginally at his concession.

“I’m sorry,” John added softly, the apology covering a multitude of indescribable things. “So--today is the second weekend, since we went into London.” Two could play the subject-change game, and he saw at once that it relieved Sherlock when he did.

“It is, indeed.” Sherlock’s smile was thin, but he did look pleased at the reminder that he could leave the house today. “We should have dinner in town. There’s a place not far from Baker Street that I used to love, if you’d be inclined to try it with me.”

John simply nodded, swallowing back a thousand things that he wished he could say at that moment. “Of course. Will we leave soon?”

Leaning back against the pale stone curve of the fountain, Sherlock shrugged, stretching his thin body idly. John’s gaze fell to the way Sherlock’s shirt clung to his almost nonexistent waistline, his body far too slight and willowy for a man in his late twenties “Mmhmm. Molly will submit her confirmation that my check-up was all clear, and then Wilkes will bring up my coat.”

John drew in a deep breath, wondering if what he was about to say would seem too familiar from the other man’s perspective. He glanced up at one of the cameras in the corners of the ceiling, uncertain--but then chose to ignore his unease, reaching out to rest one hand on Sherlock’s knee, carefully keep it appropriately low on the younger man’s leg.

He felt the unmistakable shudder that rippled through Sherlock at his touch, and when John looked up into his stunning eyes, there was something far too raw and vulnerable to be put into words in Sherlock’s gaze, something that made John’s pulse skip when he saw it there.

“You know that you can  _ always _ talk to me, about absolutely anything, if you needed to, right?” John asked softly, and Sherlock blinked, a little of the shock fading from his expression to be replaced by a warm, mellow gratitude.

“I do know it. Thank you, John.”

* * *

It was late afternoon before they finally did leave Appledore, and the car deposited them at Baker Street to enjoy the short walk to Sherlock’s restaurant of choice. Sherlock led the way to a small Italian bistro called Angelo’s, where they were greeted enthusiastically at the door by a large, boisterous man who seemed as shocked as Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson had each been, two weekends before, to see Sherlock out and about.

He ushered them inside swiftly, directing them to a small booth by the front window, and even added a little candle to the table, much to John’s bemusement.

Glancing at the tiny flame flickering over the top of his menu, John chewed on his bottom lip, smirking slightly. “Bit of an odd touch, that, isn’t it?”

Sherlock just snorted a laugh, sipping a glass of the wine that Angelo had brought over for them, on the house. “That would be Angelo for you. He remembers how vehemently solitary I used to be, when I lived at Baker Street. For me to bring someone here with me, of all places, then to his mind, it must undoubtedly be a date.”

John blinked several times at that suggestion, speechless for a moment, unsure how to respond to such a statement. His voice was a touch scratchy when he did manage a reply. “Does he--not know that you’re married?”

Crystalline blue eyes broke contact with his, dropping to pretend to scan the menu. “No. I never saw it as necessary to tell him, as he is only an acquaintance.”

John had to nod in concession to that, even if he was still beyond confused by Sherlock’s casual lack of concern that someone who seemed to know and like him so well wouldn’t even know that he had been married for multiple years. “....fair enough.”

Angelo returned to them, practically bubbling with excitement. “It has been far too long since I’ve seen you, Sherlock! And you’re not alone once more, which is so wonderful to see--you hadn’t brought anyone here with you since Jim left town, so very sad.” In contrast to that statement, he continued to beam back and forth between the two of them unabashedly, looking about ready to rub his hands together in glee. “So, what will you have? All on the house, of course.”

They both ordered their food, and once Angelo had hurried away again, John stared studiously at his own untouched glass of wine--he was on duty, after all--unsure if he could handle seeing the look on Sherlock’s face over what Angelo had revealed.

After a slightly-too-long silence between them, Sherlock sighed in annoyance, giving John a vaguely exasperated look when the doctor finally caved and looked back up at him. “Jim...was my last relationship. We dated while I attended universty briefly, prior to my marriage.” He drummed his long white fingers absently on the tabletop, the motions light and fluttery and on-edge. “This was where he and I would come to eat, rather frequently. Angelo considered us a well-suited couple.”

John raised an eyebrow at that description, refusing to allow himself to dwell on the meaning behind the small burst of jealousy--of all things--that had flared inside his chest. “And were you?”

Sherlock merely snorted again, looking away first, this time. “That would be impossible to objectively say. We were happy enough together, I suppose. But Jim accepted a job offer out-of-country, and shortly afterwards, I...met Charles.”

John contemplated that, wondering suddenly if perhaps Sherlock might have leapt into his marriage impulsively, trying to cope with a lover’s unplanned departure from his life. But that didn’t seem at all like Sherlock, not as John had come to know him, at any rate.

“You were serious about him.” It was a statement, not a question.

A shrug was his reply. “I was at the time. It’s old history, now--it’s been nearly a decade.”

“Oh?” John couldn’t seem to help himself, somehow, could not stop the way his curiosity about Sherlock’s life filtered through his body like poison. “How long have you, uh, been at Appledore?”  _ Been married? _

Sherlock’s brow furrowed, something distant flickering in his gaze. “Seven years. We married when I was twenty-two.”

Their food arrived, sparing them more of that line of conversation, and for a few minutes the two men merely ate quietly together. Then Sherlock paused, lowering his fork. His eyes remained downcast. “Are you in a relationship, John?”

The doctor chuckled softly. “Me, no. Not since well before my military service began. Haven’t had the time or energy, since then.”

Sherlock nodded slowly, looking deeply thoughtful. “And you like both of the sexes.”

John’s eyebrows shot up, but he was hardly surprised, either by the deduction or by Sherlock’s voicing it so bluntly. “True. I do tend to prefer men, though."

Cocking his head, Sherlock evaluated him intently. “Curious. I wonder why that is.”

John merely shrugged at that. “No rhyme or reason to attraction, I s’pose. When there’s chemistry, that’s that.” He smiled slightly. “I do seem more drawn to people that I can take care of, I’ve noticed.”

A much softer smile touched Sherlock’s lips, as well. “Yes. I have seen that in you.”

They finished eating in a much more peaceful silence after that, though John noticed the occasional intense glances that Sherlock sent his way, but he said nothing about it.

When they left Angelo’s, Sherlock paused on the street, looking back in the direction they had originally walked from, prior to dinner. “Would you possibly mind--could we stop by Mrs. Hudson’s? I have some books that I left in my old flat, which I would like to take home with us.”

John nodded at once, smiling warmly at the younger man. “Yes, of course. We can go anywhere you want to.”

They walked back to Baker Street, and Mrs. Hudson let them at once, delighted to see them and waving off Sherlock’s apologies for the late hour. She let them upstairs at once, obviously thrilled to have him there again regardless of the reason. John followed Sherlock up to the second floor, and Sherlock let them in with a key concealed above the doorframe.

The flat was dark and cool, heavy with the feeling that no one lived there, now. John watched Sherlock circle the living room, trailing his fingers over the sheet-covered furniture before stopping in front of the window, his pale face glowing faintly in the dimming light from outside.

“I stumbled upon this place when I was just starting out at university,” Sherlock explained quietly, not turning around. “Mrs. Hudson was very generous with me, regarding the rent. It was the first place that I ever truly reconsidered home.”

John stepped closer toward him, and his movements seem to break Sherlock out of his reverie. The younger man headed over to the bookcase, searching out three specific volumes and pulling them down, setting them on the nearby table. “You’ll enjoy these ones, too,” he commented, glancing back toward John with a faint smile.

The doctor merely nodded appreciatively. “Sounds good to me.”

He had moved closer still to Sherlock as he was browsing his books, and when Sherlock turned to face John fully again, they were less than a foot apart. The same look entered Sherlock’s eyes that John had seen before, when they were sitting together at the fountain in his room--slightly haunted, but somehow almost hopeful, as well.

John’s breath caught, and he suddenly felt nothing at all like a professional bodyguard, or a soldier. Sherlock shifted incrementally closer to him, and John knew that he was not planning to stop the younger man from doing what he was about to do.

Then the cell phone trilled from inside of Sherlock’s coat pocket, and John leapt slightly, suddenly realizing just how reckless he was being. He took a hasty step back from Sherlock, looking away apologetically.

Sherlock inhaled harshly, pulling the phone out with an impatient, jerky movement. “Yes?” He listened to the message, his eyes remaining set on John’s face, expression impossible to read. “Alright.”

He hung up, and after several heartbeats John was able to look at him again. “Home again?”

Sherlock nodded, his eyes tightening at the corners, and gave one last look around the room. Watching him, seeing the yearning in his pale eyes, John realized then just how strongly Sherlock preferred this “home” to the one that awaited them.

He reached out impulsively, touching Sherlock’s wrist, and the younger man looked down at his hand as if in surprise. But without missing more than half a beat, he turned his hand over, slipping it down to catch John’s. They stood there in silence for a moment, fingers interlocked, gazing at each other without a sound.

Then Sherlock pulled away again, tugging his coat more securely around himself and leading the way back out of the flat.

* * *

The following morning, John found Sherlock looking utterly exhausted, and he sighed heavily as he crossed the lounge to join him at the window. “Did you sleep at all last night?” Not even slightly surprising him, Sherlock merely rolled his eyes in response, going to pick up his violin instead of speaking.

John had to smile when he heard the younger man play, though, recognizing his old therapeutic lullaby again, and he swayed his hand absently along to the tune. “Don’t your fingers ever get tired of playing?” he asked in amusement, sinking into his own chair.

Sherlock smiled back at him, though the expression didn’t quite seem to reach his eyes, as was so often the case. “Not really. I’ve become accustomed to countless hours of playing--there’s often little better to do. And one can never really practice too much, not with an art like music.”

John had to nod in concession to that, his eyes watching how Sherlock’s nimble fingers stroked with such skill, certainty, and familiarity over his instrument. The doctor’s mind leapt back to the warmth of Sherlock’s hand in his own, and John felt himself blush slightly, to his own chagrin.

Sherlock was toying with his fine tuners, his expression troubled as he frowned down at his hands. Eventually he sighed softly, his fingers stilling over the strings. “John...yesterday evening. I’m...I’m sorry, if my words, or my behavior, was out of line.”

Blinking in surprise, John shot a quick glance up at the cameras in the corners, but Sherlock simply shook his head. “The sound on all of those was disconnected years ago, due to my endless playing. They’re only for observation and security.” He glanced back at John through his mile-long eyelashes, eyes impossibly darker than normal. “You may safely say anything that you wish.”

John swallowed, his skin suddenly feeling far too tight all over his body. “I really probably shouldn’t.

He saw it immediately then; the flash of shock and need that flared white-hot in the younger man’s eyes, and then Sherlock looked away hastily, clearly recognizing the heat underlying John’s words. His cheeks flushed pleasantly, making John ache from head to feet. “Oh. Yes.”

The doctor sighed quietly. “And you weren’t--I mean--it was fine, Sherlock. Yesterday was...good.” He licked his lips, shifting slightly in his seat. “I didn’t mind at all.”

Sherlock nodded slowly, appearing very fascinated by his violin at this point. “I see. That’s...yes, that is...good.” He glanced back over at John, and the older man inhaled a silent gasp when he saw that Sherlock’s pupils had expanded visibly. “I--maybe...next time?”

John sat quiet for a long moment, utterly stunned, because unless he was badly mistaken about all of this, then Sherlock had just requested permission to kiss him during their next trip into town. His voice was whisper-soft. “Sherlock, you’re--are you--”

The dark-haired man looked down again, though whether it was from shame or hope, it wasn’t clear. “It’s not...that doesn’t matter. Just...please?”

A soft, jagged laugh escaped John, startling them both slightly. “Oh, you don’t have to plead with me. I just want you to be sure. If you are--then yes. In two weeks.”

Sherlock nodded at him, his eyes brightening as he looked back up, clearly pleased. “Alright. Two weeks.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Watch "The Flash" on the CW and/or Netflix, guys. It is amazing. Fully worth being too distracted to edit last night. <333 Grant Gustin, damn you, sir. I used to have self-control.


	9. Two Ghosts in One Mirror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You think you’ll go through with it?”
> 
> Chapter title from "Don't Wait" by Mapei.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter soundtrack:  
> -"Say When" by The Fray"  
> -"Don’t Wait" by Mapei  
> -"Lover I Don’t Have to Love" by Bright Eyes
> 
> This feels very much like a filler chapter, but it's because chapter 10 has two very heavy scenes, and I really didn't want to start the first one and then cut it off and go into the second one. Sorry, loves! (Honestly, things pick up a good bit from this point on, I promise. <3)

 

On his next day off, early in the following week, John decided to go give Harry and Clara a visit. He hadn’t seen his family since he’d moved out to work at Appledore, and while he’d occasionally spoken to them over the phone, he felt that it was about time he showed them that he was not actually using his job as an excuse to avoid them--which John had no doubt that Harry would have said by now.

When Clara opened the front door, there were dark circles beneath her eyes, but she brightened at once at the sight of him. “John! Oh, God, sorry, did we have plans to have you over today?”

“No, no,” he assured his sister-in-law, his pleasure at seeing her slightly dampened by the obvious state of exhaustion she was in. “I just wanted to stop by. It’s my day off, so I thought I’d hop over--is it a bad time? I really should have called, first.”

“Don’t be silly, you never need to call first with me,” she said, beaming, and ushered him into the flat. “Harry’s out, at the moment, but you and I can sit down and join me for lunch and a cuppa. She shouldn’t be too long.”

He glanced at Clara worriedly as he followed her into the kitchen, where she had apparently already been working on some tea and a sandwich. “Are you...are you doing alright, Cee? You look a bit tired. Not to be rude,” John added, a touch apologetically, and his sister-in-law chuckled, waving off his hasty backtracking with a fond smile.

“No, you’re right, I look a complete mess. Yeah, everything’s okay. Just trying to stay afloat, you know how it is.” At the look he gave her, Clara shrugged, sticking her tongue out slightly as she started laying out a second sandwich for him. “Okay, fine, maybe you’re doing better at that than I am, with a fancy new job and all. But, it is what it is. Taking life one day at a time, as usual.”

She poured the boiling water, and as their tea steeped, Clara beamed up at him, her face losing some of its worry lines. “And speaking of, how’s the job going? Are you enjoying it as much as you’d hoped you would?”

John paused, torn about how to respond. He _was_ enjoying his work, very much so; but it wasn’t entirely because of the reasons that he’d listed to Harry and Clara, after he’d first run into Bill at the coffee shop all those months ago. The job was good, satisfying for a retired and injured soldier, and it certainly had excellent benefits and compensation. But there was no denying that the only thing that actually excited John, inside the gates of Appledore London, was Sherlock Holmes.

“It’s going great,” he answered finally, not wanting to stall too long on his reply. His voice was sincere enough, thankfully, and Clara merely nodded encouragingly, ready to hear more about just how great Appledore was. “I’ve actually gotten a--well, it isn’t a promotion, really, but a better position. I’m a personal bodyguard to one of the household members.”

Clara’s eyes brightened, her expression showing a hint of amazement. “Really? John, that’s brilliant, who’d have imagined? I’m so glad it’s working out well.”

The tea was ready, and she gathered their meal onto a tray, shushing John’s efforts to help her as she carried it into the living room that had been John’s makeshift bedroom when he had been staying with them. It was much pleasanter to be in the room now, when he didn’t have a pile of bedding and random clothing articles to tuck away beneath the sofa before the two of them sat down together, Clara busying herself with making her tea how she liked it.

“I don’t want to be irritating, but you really don’t look like you’re sleeping,” John hedged eventually, when he couldn’t help himself any longer. “I am still a doctor, Cee. I can’t say you aren’t worrying me.”

His sister-in-law gave a small shrug and looked down at her lap, fingers playing absently with the silver band wrapped around her left ring finger. “I am alright, I promise. Harry’s...she’s finally agreed to do couples’ counseling, but we’ve only been in once. It...went okay.” She glanced up at John sheepishly, hazel eyes a little too bright, as if wordlessly apologizing for not getting his sister back on track.

John sighed, sipping his tea before it was cool enough, and ignoring the faint burn on his tongue. “Harry isn’t the type to change easily. That’s no surprise. And certainly not anyone’s fault, except maybe her own,” he said firmly, needing Clara to stop blaming herself.

The front door opened, and they both looked up in surprise, Clara jumping slightly. Harry entered, her face pinched with exhaustion and possibly some annoyance, though she paused in the living doorway when she spotted her brother sitting next to her wife.

“Johnny...hey. You alright, then?” she asked, and John heard the unease, the embarrassment. She didn’t want him to see how bad things were, again.

He tried to hide any negative feelings he had toward her obviously hungover state, rising and moving to embrace his sister tightly, relieved when she promptly hugged him back. “All well,” John answered her quietly. “You?”

Harry merely nodded, eyes downcast, a far-too-fake smile plastered on a little too quickly. “Yeah, just tired. From work,” she added, though they both knew damn well she hadn’t found new employment yet, but John said nothing of his sister’s dependence on Clara’s meager teaching salary. “I, uh, just give me a mo’.”

She almost stumbled as she passed him, and John kept his back turned, sparing both women the weight of his gaze as Harry mumbled an apology to Clara and vanished into their bedroom. When he turned back, his sister-in-law had tears in her eyes, but she blinked them back and smiled as he rejoined her on the sofa.

John was frowning, but he reached out and took Clara’s hand, wanting her to feel sure of his love and support for her. “You know you can always tell me, if you need help with her--right?”

Clara simply nodded, seemingly beyond words on the subject at this point. John let it go.

Angling for a subject change as she picked up her share of the sandwiches she’d made, Clara offered him a much brighter smile, nudging him playfully with her elbow. “So, Appledore! A reclusive billionaire’s manor. Have you met lots of interesting people in there?”

John was quiet for a moment as they began eating as well, thinking over the ensemble of people living and working inside the mansion. His thoughts roamed over Bill, and their security teams--all good, ordinary men, backgrounds not so different from his own, decent blokes in every way--and then the ghost-like staff who came in to cook, clean, and provide for the man himself, and his nearly-invisible spouse. John thought of Magnussen and Sherlock, how oppositional they were, and how bizarre everything about that household was.

“Yeah,” he said finally, offering her a faint smile back. “It’s a very unusual bunch.”

Clara was watching him closely as he seemed to deliberating with his musings, and then suddenly, she was smirking, letting out a tinkling little laugh. “Oh my God, you’ve met someone, haven’t you.”

John merely blinked at her in surprise, and then he looked down with a guilty little smile, picking his tea back up again. “That transparent, am I?”

His sister-in-law couldn’t stop grinning, real amusement lighting her face up finally, making her looks years younger and several thousand fights less worried. “Your face got all soft and sentimental for a second. You thought of someone who’s more _special_ than _unusual_.” She laughed again, poking his shoulder teasingly. “Who is it, then? Bloke or lady?”

John sighed again, knowing he was blushing a little, of all the silly things. “Uh, bloke. But it’s...it won’t ever be like that. It’d never work out.”

“Why not?”

He just looked at his hands, mouth tightening a little with uncertainty over how to answer, and Clara’s eyes widened. “What, is he straight?”

That made John laugh, and he shook his head, unable to imagine Sherlock ever flirting with a woman, or even looking at one with the softness that transformed his glacial eyes whenever he looked at John. Perhaps John was too biased; but it simply didn’t suit Sherlock, the mental image of a female companion. “No, not at all. At least, I don’t think that he likes both. But, well, he’s...”

It took a second’s indecision, but John felt fairly sure it was safe enough--Magnussen’s marriage was not public knowledge, so Clara wouldn’t necessarily make the leap to guess whose husband he was talking about. “He’s married.”

Clara’s face fell, instantly, and John realized too late how he must look to her right then; Harry had had more than her share of past “indiscretions,” often when she was intoxicated, and yet somehow, Clara had repeatedly forgiven her. But she knew the sting of infidelity far too well.

“Nothing’s happened,” John added hastily, guilt and defensiveness coloring his tone.

His sister-in-law looked uneasy, though she was valiantly trying to conceal it. “I’m not--I wouldn’t judge you, John. Please know that, and don’t think you can’t talk to me about it. Just...” She sighed quietly. “Just--be careful, alright? I would hate terribly to see you get hurt. Either by rejection, or an angry spouse coming after you.”

John closed his eyes briefly, only able to imagine Magnussen’s reaction if John and Sherlock were to continue whatever it was that was going on between them. He couldn’t begin to picture the scope of the consequences.

Opening his eyes again, John swallowed roughly. “Rejection wouldn’t be my problem. He does reciprocate. But...”

Clara’s frown deepened. “Was the marriage already in trouble?”

He let out a soft, grim laugh at that. “It’s very possibly the coldest that I have ever seen.” Simultaneously, they both glanced over at the closed door of the bedroom, out of which Harry had not returned. Clara’s brows creased in disbelief, and John could only shrug, sighing heavily. “I don’t know, though. He...he excites me.”

His sister-in-law snorted a teasing laugh. “Well, of course he does, you dolt. It’s a new romance--and add in the whole forbidden bit? Oh, John.” She finished her tea, toying with the crust of her sandwich as she glanced back up at him. “You think you’ll go through with it?”

John licked his lips, watching the tea leaves settling in his cup. “I want to.” At the amused look that Clara threw his way, he laughed in concession. “I know, I know--I’m a completely horrible person.”

“No, you’re a normal person,” Clara corrected him with a soft, sad little smile. She leaned forward on the couch, touching his knee gently. “Keep me posted on how it all plays out, will you?”

John simply nodded again, grateful as ever for his sister-in-law’s unconquerable sweet nature.

* * *

He returned to the Yard again that evening, not wanting to retreat to the stillness of his barracks back on the grounds, and not sure he felt like being around his comrades in the security room. Tonight, Appledore felt miles away, and John wanted to keep it that way a little while longer.

Entering the cozy, dimly-lit space, John paused in surprise on the threshold when he spotted Mycroft Holmes in a booth near the back, a glass of brandy resting beside the closed book in front of his folded hands. John hesitated for a moment, then made his way slowly over to the table, stopping a short ways away. “Mr. Holmes?"

Mycroft raised his head, and the slight frown that had immediately creased his forehead relaxed at once when he saw John. “Dr. Watson. How lovely to see you again. Day off, I suppose?” At John’s confirming nod, Mycroft gestured to the opposite side of the booth from where he was sitting. “By all means, join me if you’d care to. Gregory will be back shortly, if you’d like to order anything.”

John couldn’t help a tiny smile, moving closer to draw out the chair. “Alright--if you’re sure I’m not intruding.”

“Not in the slightest,” Mycroft assured him warmly, taking a sip of his drink. “I come here whenever I have a spare evening, if there’s nothing too pressing at the office. I like the energy here, after all the quiet at the Diogenes. Ah, Gregory.”

Greg beamed at John as he reached their table, clapping a hand on the blonde man’s shoulder in greeting. “Welcome back, John. Can I get you a drink?” At John’s grateful smile and nod, Greg turned back toward the bar and hailed Sally, then gestured toward John, and she sent them a thumbs up and a broad grin.

To John’s slight surprise, Greg sat down on Mycroft’s side of the booth, and further shocked the doctor by stealing a sip of the brandy, wrinkling his nose at the taste. “You know that I’ve got older stuff in back, right?” Greg asked. Mycroft made a slight face in response, and Greg just chuckled softly, then looked back over at John. “So, how goes it? How’s Sherlock?”

Across from him, Mycroft went still at the inquiry, and John couldn’t help glancing at him before he replied to the pub owner. “Uh, he’s--he’s doing well, yeah.” He looked at Mycroft again, chewing his lip before going ahead and disclosing, “We got permission to go into town every other weekend.”

Mycroft blinked, slowly, and dropped his gaze to his glass as he nodded. “Thank you, John. I’m sure he expressed his appreciation for that.”

John saw Greg’s hand slip out of sight, seemingly resting on Mycroft’s arm as if offering him comfort, and he almost smiled as curiosity won over his concern at the way Mycroft seemed so deflated as they discussed his sibling. “ _Acquaintance_ , hm?” John asked, raising his eyebrows at Greg.

The older man grinned slightly, his brown eyes twinkling with amusement. “Oh, yes. Very close acquaintance."

Sally materialized at John’s side, dropping off his drink and giving his shoulder a squeeze that John wasn’t sure if he found friendly, or a little too intimate. That seemed to be the way, with Sally. “Greg, that woman’s back, asking about our wines again.” She sounded sulky, and John hid a smile, noticing that Greg’s reaction was similar.

Greg heaved a sigh, pushing himself back to his feet and sliding out from the booth. “Excuse me, gents.” He headed toward the bar, greeting a dark-haired woman in a pristine black dress who was tapping away on a cell phone up until he reached her.

John sat quietly for a moment, fingers drumming nervously on the table as he debated the wisdom of pushing buttons any more. So far, he’d had terrible luck with getting information, no matter who he asked or how carefully he approached the topic. Finally he sighed, too overcome by the need to know, even if he felt as if he might be invading personal territory.

“Mr. Holmes, is Sherlock...is he--alright?” John couldn’t think of a better word for what he was asking, and hoped the older man would understand him. “Everyone is always either evasive, afraid, or negative when it comes to talking about him. Or to him, for that matter.”

Mycroft didn’t reply for several minutes, sipping his brandy and studying the doctor in a manner that made John feel distinctly as if he was being weighed and measured. Then Mycroft shrugged slightly, and John’s mind echoed with the end of the quote: _found wanting_.

But perhaps he had not been found lacking. “Yes, he’s fine, John. He isn’t always happy, but...he is safe.” Mycroft smiled thinly at John, blue eyes dark with thought. “I greatly appreciate you being there for him. I know that he is very fond of you.”

 _If only you really did know_. John returned his smile, though, not wishing to worry Mycroft about his brother’s marital issues, or his personal desires. Selfishly, he knew, John was slightly afraid that if he admitted the depth of their “fondness” for each other, perhaps Mycroft would interfere, and separate John from Sherlock. “It’s mutual,” he settled for replying, hoping to remain on safe ground.

Mycroft paused as he reached for his brandy again, looking over at John a little more closely. Whatever he was looking for, though, he apparently found, because he frowned slightly, but didn’t say anything. John exhaled, feeling like he had just missed something significant.

After another lengthy gap of peaceful quiet and glasses clinking softly against the tabletop, underlined by the muted chatter and ambient noise of the rest of the pub, Greg returned to them. He took over the silence without seeming to notice that Mycroft and John weren’t interacting much, filling it with a tale of the high expectations of “that woman,” as he described her, an apparently very selective connoisseur called Adler.

When his watch reported that it was nearing midnight, John finally accepted that he’d better get home and get some sleep. As he stood to leave, Mycroft gestured for him to wait, and John paused, looking at the older man expectantly.

“If possible, John, do see if on your next excursion, Sherlock would like to come by my office for lunch?” he suggested, and John nodded in agreement. Despite the dutiful brotherly show of disinterest that Sherlock had portrayed previously, John was beginning to see that there was an unshakable bond linking the Holmes brothers, and he found himself very glad of that.

He shook both of their hands firmly, bidding them goodnight, then went to call the car to take him back to Appledore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for next chapter do include a scene of sexual dub-con, not exactly similar to the previous one, but it's still Charles and Sherlock, so define that dubiousness how you see fit.
> 
> Sorry for the gap, lovelies, grad school is a cruel master!
> 
> (Side note, due to her name and the fact that I head canon her as a sweetheart, I see Clara as Jenna Coleman. XD )


	10. Like a Moth I'm Drawn into Your Flame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “'You haven’t changed your mind, have you?'” he asked softly, and John’s heart felt as if it might explode inside of his chest."
> 
> Chapter title from "Not Strong Enough" by Apocalyptica.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter soundtrack: 
> 
> -"Hello" by Lionel Richie  
> -"Desperate" by Decyfer Down  
> -"Not Strong Enough" by Apocalyptica  
> -"Diamonds" by Farewell2Fear cover
> 
> CHAPTER CONTAINS SEXUAL CONTENT OF A DUB-CON NATURE. Please see end notes for explicit warnings if you're concerned about triggers.

John was startled to find Charles Magnussen in the lounge with Sherlock the following morning, after he had clocked in and gone upstairs. His employer was seated next to Sherlock on the loveseat, speaking to him quietly, and John hesitated in the doorway, unsure if he should interrupt them.

Watching Mr. Magnussen murmuring in his husband’s ear, one long-fingered hand resting high on Sherlock’s thigh, John’s stomach twisted uncomfortably inside him. The visual before him settled heavily in his gut, reminding him that whatever Sherlock’s issues were, whatever the secrets that surrounded the handsome young man--he  _ had _ married Magnussen, and for John to pursue anything with him...

As he was wrestling with the guilt and uncertainty swirling in his chest over that reality, Sherlock abruptly glanced up, and from across the room his eyes met John’s. Sherlock merely blinked, slowly, giving no other external sign that he had seen John; but even with the distance between them, John could see the icy blue of Sherlock’s eyes lightening, and the pinched look on his face eased somewhat.

The nervous flutter in John’s chest evaporated instantly at the sight, and he entered the lounge fully, maintaining a formal posture for the time being. Mr. Magnussen finally noticed him then, and when he smiled, the expression was as cool and knowing as it always seemed to be.

He gave Sherlock’s leg one last squeeze as he stood up, and then he rose, crossing the room and passing closely by John in leaving. “Dr. Watson.”

John nodded respectfully, keeping his mouth shut and waiting until Magnussen had gone across the landing and into his office before he moved to Sherlock’s side.

The younger man looked up at him with an oddly passive expression, but his eyes darkened slightly as he gazed up at John. “You haven’t changed your mind, have you?” he asked softly, and John’s heart felt as if it might explode inside of his chest.

“No,” he replied just as quietly, his eyes locked on Sherlock’s face, trying to read whatever might have passed between Sherlock and his husband to leave his charge looking so haunted, or sounding so needful. “Whatever you want--I promise.”

Sherlock nodded, and after another moment of gazing at one another in wordless communication, John took his usual place, though his heart steadfastly refused to calm down again.

* * *

That weekend, Bill surprised John by informing him that two of the security men would be joining them on the trip into town; but before John could panic about the unexpected supervision being assigned, the Sergeant was already explaining, barely looking at John as he browsed his notes on the security tablet. “They’ll just stay with the car, and just be available if you need them. I assume you won’t.”

Trying not to look too obviously anxious over the new addition, John could only nod in agreement. “Alright, sounds good.”

They spent the day as they had on their first time out, wandering around the city. John mentioned to Sherlock about his brother’s invitation to dinner at the Diogenes, but Sherlock merely shook his head, and said they would go next time. John could sense the younger man’s nervous energy, but neither commented on his restlessness, and by the time they drove back to Baker Street to join Mrs. Hudson for dinner, John thought they both might just snap from the line of tension humming invisibly between their bodies.

Just being there, in Sherlock’s former home, with the awareness of the empty flat above them and their impending privacy, had John’s hair standing on edge. But he managed to keep up with the conversation, and ate more than he would have thought he could handle, with his stomach so knotted up.

When they had finished eating, Sherlock excused them both to go upstairs, and Mrs. Hudson ushered them out with cheerful assurances of seeing them the next day at home.

Their steps were slow as they ascended the stairs, the air between them heavy with anticipation. Sherlock opened the door and let them both in, then closed and bolted it behind him again. He removed his coat, turning to hang it from the rack next to the door, then exhaled quietly.

“You terrify me, John.”

The older man smiled weakly, hovering at the center of the dimly lit room, his eyes locked on Sherlock. “That’s quite mutual, trust me. You know that we don’t have to--there’s no reason to be afraid, right? I would never do anything you didn’t want me to.”

Sherlock’s responding smile was small, tight and wanting, but the look in his eyes was something else entirely--something much wilder and more than a little hopeful. “I know. Your nobility, in this regard, is rather irritating.”

John looked at him more closely, and in that instant he suddenly realized just how desperately Sherlock was waiting for that first step to be made--but how wary he was of jumping across the line first. He wanted this, clearly and deeply, but the strength to shatter the final thin wall of glass between them was beyond the brilliant young man. Stepping closer to him, John heard Sherlock’s breath catch faintly, and saw the way his eyes widened and his pupils expanded.

It was all that John needed as confirmation.

He reached out with both arms, slipping one hand around the back of Sherlock’s neck and tugging him down and in; his other arm wound around the taller man’s waist to pull him closer. 

A noise of shock and excitement left Sherlock just as their lips collided, and John swallowed it hungrily, kissing the younger man with every ounce of skill he had ever mastered in this regard, and every scrap of longing he had let build up over the several months of wanting to touch the man now slumping eagerly into his hold.

John felt Sherlock’s fingers clenching into the lapels of his jacket, trying to keep him close, and the older man grinned slightly. His teeth closed gently around Sherlock’s bottom lip, nipping lightly, and to his delight Sherlock  _ whimpered _ into the kiss, opening his mouth to John at once. The doctor accepted the invitation readily, slipping his tongue past the taller man’s lips, and Sherlock arched forward against him, surrendering to John’s exploration of his mouth completely.

After a long, blissful moment of this heated exchange, John finally broke the kiss, but he made no effort to pull away, panting softly as he gazed up into Sherlock’s eyes. “Still afraid?”

“Petrified.”

John smiled, breathed out a quiet laugh, stroking his fingers down Sherlock’s face and enjoying the evident pleasure on the younger man’s face at the sweetness of his touch. “I’ve been wanting to do that for weeks,” he admitted--as if that was at all a secret--and yet Sherlock blushed faintly, the color beautiful on his alabaster cheeks.

“I know,” he murmured back, verdigris eyes gleaming in the faint light coming in through the windows. “I could see it in yours eyes, whenever you looked at me.” Sherlock drew a deep breath, smiling a little shyly. “I wanted it, too.”

John just nodded, knowing that already, and he exhaled a little shakily, not releasing his hold on Sherlock’s neck, or his waist. “So...what happens now?”

“I’m not sure,” Sherlock admitted, his voice still slightly breathless from the kissing. “I don’t want...John, I don’t want you to ever consider yourself obligated to me--”

The older man quieted him at once with a finger over his lips, chuckling when Sherlock puckered his lips to kiss the pad gently. “Hush, love--no. It’s not an obligation. Never this,” he promised, his tone adamant.

Sherlock dodged around the finger against his lips to steal another kiss, making John laugh again quietly at the sudden hunger he could feel in the younger man’s movements, as if they had unlocked some secret side of him by finally crossing over that unseen barrier previously keeping them apart. As he kissed him in return, John stepped forward, slowly backing Sherlock into the locked front door of the flat, and he grinned smugly when Sherlock moaned softly into his mouth, utterly pliant under the doctor’s guiding hands. “John...”

“I know.” It was panted, breathless and broken, whispered between their mouths and lost in the moist air they were sharing. “More?”

Sherlock grabbed one of John’s hands, lifting it and setting it above his heart, which could be felt hammering away even through the fabric of his shirt and jacket. “Please.”

Seizing that permission, John pressed forward into Sherlock, kissing him until they were both panting more heavily, and he could feel Sherlock’s hips swiveling slightly against his own; the younger man was undeniably hard inside his trousers, the hot pressure of it so tempting and fucking  _ perfect _ against John’s own erection, only separated by the fabric of their clothing.

Feeling that, though, John broke the kiss with enormous effort, groaning softly in frustration and longing. He knew he should move his body back, remove the enticement completely, but hell if he could have done so for anything short of death, right at that moment. “Fuck, we--we can’t, Sherlock, not right now.” John rested their foreheads together, his chest heaving as he battled for control over himself. “We haven’t the time today, and--and I’d rather take our time, to look after you properly.”

Sherlock huffed softly in annoyance, but he was smiling despite the denial, eyes wide and lust-blown, his hands trembling against John’s shoulders. “As I said. Irritatingly noble.” He swallowed roughly, hazy blue gaze dropping to John’s lips. “John, I want to...” he began, then trailed off, looking oddly young again, like he didn’t know the words to express just what it was that he most needed from the doctor.

“I know.” John smiled again, a little wider, because he could read it in Sherlock’s expression and body, and he shared that longing, more than anything. But one of them had to be the responsible one, for now at least. “Believe me, I know. And I do, as well--I do want to. But only when the timing’s right.”

Sherlock nodded slowly in acceptance, exhaling long and slow, and let his hands slide lazily down John’s arms, until they dropped to his sides, breaking contact. “I hate the thought of returning, and having to pretend,” he said softly, a hint of mulishness there, and John’s heart clenched for him, hating the quiet loneliness that he would be forced to return this beautiful creature to back at Appledore.

“But we have to.” He cupped Sherlock’s face between his hands tenderly, reveling in his present freedom to do so, and watched as the other man leaned into the touch happily, eyes sinking closed. “We would lose everything, otherwise. I would be fired, at the very least.” John’s voice caught slightly. “I would lose you, certainly.”

Sherlock’s eyes reopened to settle on John’s face, and his smile was small and fragile in reply. “And that would never do.”

The older man huffed a laugh at that understatement, leaning in to kiss Sherlock once more, light and brief. “No. No, that would not do at all.”

They shared one final kiss, deep and exploratory, lingering as if to memorize the taste of one another’s mouths. Then John forced himself to tug Sherlock away from the door, laughing as the younger man pouted adorably in reaction, and handed him his coat.

He took the risk of allowing himself to continue touching Sherlock freely until they reached the road in front of 221B, and then John’s hand fell away from Sherlock’s arm when the car appeared, gliding around the corner to greet them.

Sherlock visibly flinched at the withdrawal of John’s touch, but the older man could do nothing but smile at him sadly, then move to open the car door for them both.

The drive home became its own brand of torture, because John found himself obligated to maintain a respectable degree of space between them under the gazes of his men from the security team. These were his friends, his colleagues; but for that brief, seemingly endless drive, they felt like John’s enemies. Sherlock was tense and motionless the entire way, gazing out the window without seeming to blink.

As soon as they entered the foyer back at Appledore, Bill was there to meet them at the door. “John--I need you to take Team 3 and do one run of the perimeter, and then you’re good for the night.”

John nodded at him, trading a quick glance with Sherlock before he found himself with no choice but to turn and leave, his steps dragging slightly in an effort to hear anything Bill might say to Sherlock, but within seconds he was out the front door and out of earshot.

The sergeant nodded to Sherlock respectfully, then started retreating to the security station, speaking over his shoulder. “Mr. Magnussen has tea waiting for you upstairs.”

Sherlock managed not to sigh out loud, just nodded, though he doubted the sergeant saw the gesture as he returned to his duties. Murray never did seem to actually look directly at him, anymore.

He handed Wilkes his coat, ignoring the butler just as studiously as he did Sherlock, and headed up the staircase with slow, even steps.

Sherlock stopped to wash his hands and face in one of Charles’ bathrooms, trusting that his husband would dismiss the minor delay as getting rid of the smells of London. As his wet fingers passed over his lips, Sherlock paused, staring silently at his own reflection in the clear, framed glass above the deep basin sink.

_ Been five years. Seems I’m due for another minor rebellion. _

Shaking his head at his own thoughts, Sherlock rinsed his lips and mouth briefly--as much as he loathed the necessity of doing so, one kiss on his mouth and Charles would notice if he tasted different--then made his way into the next room. He entered the small lounge and went at once to the empty chair opposite Charles, eyes on the tea set arranged on the end table between them. “Good evening,” Sherlock murmured, leaning forward to pour his drink.

His husband smiled at him coolly over the gold-lined rim of his cup. “Did you enjoy your time with Dr. Watson today?”

Sherlock paused as he was stirring some sugar into his tea, not looking up. “Well, the purpose of these trips is just to be out and about. I have missed being in London. We went to see Mrs. Hudson at home again.”

Charles chuckled quietly, setting his tea down with a soft  _ clink _ . “Yes, of course. I’m sure she was delighted to see you inside of Baker Street once more.”

Sherlock gazed into his tea as he continued stirring it past necessity, reminding himself firmly that the security detail would have reported back to the house when he and John were dropped off. That didn’t mean that Charles knew what had transpired behind closed doors. He settled for shrugging in reply. “It is very nice to visit her, occasionally.”

“Of course.” Charles’ eyes tracked over Sherlock’s face thoughtfully, his usual idle smile gracing his lips. “You know, we certainly do have the space, if you would like to bring your furnishings and personal library here.”

Sherlock hesitated at that, and licked his lips, suppressing a shudder when Charles promptly glanced at his mouth at the movement. “That’s alright,” he replied, voice soft. “I enjoy going back to see Mrs. Hudson in such a familiar place.” He swallowed stiffly. “If, of course, that is still acceptable.”

Charles’ smile widened very slightly, though his eyes did not change behind the lenses of his glasses. “Certainly. You’ve more than earned a little leeway, my dear.” He lifted his teacup to take a sip, then set it back down gently, finger and thumb sliding absently around the china rim. “Ever since the good doctor joined our staff, you’ve been...far more prone to behaving yourself. It seems he is a good influence on you.”

_ In more ways than one _ . Sherlock nodded, crystalline eyes dropping from Charles’, hoping that nothing of his thoughts would show themselves on his face. “I...sincerely enjoy his company.” The next words stuck in his throat, but Sherlock pressed on, needing to use every tool he possessed in his arsenal to remain in his husband’s good graces. “Thank you for allowing it.”

As always, Sherlock could see the undisguised delight in Charles’ eyes at hearing his husband voicing gratitude, no matter the tension audibly underlying the words. The older man leaned back in his chair, one hand moving to rest ominously on his own thigh as he considered Sherlock.

“It’s my pleasure to grant you these little things, when you’ve been good, you know.” Charles tilted his head, adopting an expression of genuine concern. “Have you recovered from our last evening together? I know I left you...perhaps a little sore.”

If Sherlock didn’t know better, he would almost have believed that his husband sounded contrite as he said that. “I’m fine.” His voice was slightly more clipped now, despite the danger inherent in becoming snippy. “Mol--Dr. Hooper said there was no lasting damage. Only a handful of bruises.”

“Mmhmm.” Charles hummed again, nodding leisurely in acknowledgment, his pale blue eyes flashing from the firelight in front of them. “On your neck, as well? Or just your inner thighs?”

Sherlock jaw clenched, completely disinterested in discussing the physical reminders of how roughly he had permitted Charles to handle him on their last night together--an unspoken penalty for his using John to manipulate his husband into granting him their ongoing London trips.

Charles hadn’t needed to say yes, of course, but Sherlock had no doubt that he had done so knowing that he would be able to take his pound of flesh from the younger man, later on. And he certainly had, even insisting that Sherlock  _ ask _ for his touch as he had toyed with him into the night, growing rougher and rougher as the hours passed.

But, as always, Sherlock did nothing to fight it; he simply surrendered, silencing his mind and giving Charles what he wanted. Sherlock closed the space between their chairs, and knelt on the thick carpet, his head dipping forward to expose the vulnerable back of his neck to the older man.

He didn’t hide his shudder this time, feeling his husband’s damp touch as Charles stroked the lengthening dark curls away from his nape. Sherlock knew exactly what could be seen there--he had already memorised the four precise, evenly-spaced marks, now faded to a barely-there purple-blue hue; the outline of long, thin fingers pressed deeply into the skin, left behind from a merciless touch pushing his head downward.

Charles traced his fingertips delicately over their own imprints on Sherlock’s flesh, and he made a soft sound, somewhere between scolding, and amused. “Such a shame, really, to mar this lovely pale skin of yours...but then, you do look so lovely. Claimed, in a way.”

Sherlock forced himself to focus on his breathing. His mind leapt back to John, and to the truly  _ claiming _ way that he had kissed Sherlock only an hour before.

He was vaguely glad that John did not happen to squeeze hard when he had touched Sherlock’s neck as he drew him in for their kiss; Sherlock doubted that he could have hidden a flinch, and he could only imagine how John would have reacted to Charles’ possessive marks. He had not missed the flicker of distress in his doctor’s eyes when he’d entered the lounge earlier that week, and had seen Charles sitting there with him. Despite his obvious desires, it was clearly difficult for John to reconcile himself with Sherlock’s married status. 

Sherlock could not risk John seeing any physical signs of another’s touch on his body, and retreating from him.

Charles’ fingers flexed abruptly, drawing Sherlock’s attention back to the present moment with an unpleasant twinge. “Shall we continue your streak of good behavior?” his husband asked softly, a taunting note of challenge in his voice.

Sherlock exhaled quietly, his eyes not leaving his husband’s; but despite the many thoughts swirling through his mind, once again he simply obeyed. He needed Charles to remain pleased, in order to avoid having his gaze fixed too intently on Sherlock, or on John, or their weekend outings. 

He slid both hands slowly up his husband’s legs, until they were framing the hard curve of his arousal through the fine material of his trousers. Charles shifted forward in his armchair, giving Sherlock better access, and the younger man very carefully unbuckled the expensive leather belt, then unzipped his husband’s pants.

His fingers no longer shook doing this, and Sherlock freed Charles’ cock with careful hands, stroking with a loose grip to get him fully hard. Then Sherlock leaned down, hearing Charles’ soft sigh of breath as he closed his lips around the head.

Sherlock worked his mouth all the way down, opening his jaw as widely as he could, letting the shaft move over his tongue until it hit the snug entrance to his throat. Still he pushed himself harder, letting the head breach, swallowing around it and feeling Charles shudder slightly at the tightness of Sherlock throat squeezing down around him.

“You’ve gotten so good at this,” Charles murmured overhead, one hand drifting from Sherlock’s neck up into his hair, twisting into the dark strands almost tenderly. “No more fussing and constantly pulling away, hmm?”

There was no gain to be had in refusing to respond at all. Sherlock hummed his acknowledgment, his throat vibrating around Charles’ cock, until the need for air forced him to finally slide back up, and off. He didn’t retreat far, though, keeping his tongue moving actively over the glans, maintaining slow and lazy movements; Charles would control him if and when he pleased.

Sure enough, there was a warning tightening from the fingers in his hair a second later, making Sherlock’s scalp prickle, and he obligingly sucked in a lungful of air. Then he was pushed down, forced to take it all the way once more, into his throat, until his airway was fully blocked.

He knew these power plays far too well by now, knew that Charles would never allow it to permanently damage him--though his husband did not seem nearly as concerned about the possibility of Sherlock passing out during the process.

So Sherlock had widely opted to assimilate; had overpowered his own impulses to resist or to struggle, and had learned to simply surrender his oxygen to his husband.

“ _ Very _ good,” Charles praised him softly, permitting Sherlock a brief breath. “Now...let’s see if you can’t finish it properly, all by yourself.”

Sherlock raised his eyes to glance up at Charles’ face, curious despite his suppressed anger over this indignity. Charles didn’t typically want his participation or initiation during oral exchanges; he preferred to simply  _ take _ .

But there it was, a loosening in the older man’s grip, waiting for Sherlock to get him off. Without a sound, Sherlock blinked his acquiescence, then sank back down, hollowing his cheeks and making full use of his tongue, teasing around the head and into the slit before sucking the shaft back down into his throat.

If he closed his eyes, Sherlock found that he could drift; he could imagine kneeling before John, just like this, over in his own lounge. He could picture the doctor’s legs bracketing him in securely, blue eyes kind and soft as he watched Sherlock, a smile curling up the corners of that calm, steady mouth.

A sigh left Sherlock, whispering soft air around Charles’ cock as he sucked more roughly, and his husband hummed in response, fingers pressing painfully into the hinge of his jaw to capture his attention.

“Don’t swallow.” The order came so quietly, somehow both emotionless, and overwhelming. “Pull back, Sherlock.”

Sherlock opened his eyes again, twin pools of glittering winter ice, lifting them in confusion. Then he closed them once more as understanding settled in, and he threw himself into his task more rigorously, sucking and licking until he could feel Charles shuddering beneath him.

When Charles climaxed, he said nothing; he just pressed two fingertips against Sherlock’s cheek, and the kneeling man withdrew obediently, eyes remaining closed and lips parting on a soundless gasp as he felt the first hot splashes of his spouse’s release paint his face, cheeks, and chin with pearly white.

A drop nearly reached his eye, and Sherlock remained utterly still, feeling the heat and slick weight of it on his skin, before Charles’ thumb was there, rubbing it lightly in.

“Almost blends right in, with how lovely and pale you are,” he murmured, and there was no mockery or hostility in his voice. Sherlock opened his eyes again for good, gazing back up at his husband with an empty gaze, and they stared at one another for a long, quiet moment.

Then Charles smiled softly, as if in affection, and reached up to tug his handkerchief out of his breast pocket, using it to almost tenderly wipe Sherlock’s face clean for him. “Are you finished with your tea?”

When Sherlock just nodded, still mute, Charles folded the soiled cloth and set it on the tray beside him, then gestured dismissively. Obeying the unspoken command, Sherlock tucked away his husband’s spent cock, zipping him back up with perfectly steady hands.

Charles’ eyes did not leave his. “Goodnight, Sherlock.”

One more nod back at his spouse, and Sherlock stood up on stiff legs, not breaking eye contact until he had turned his back on Charles, and slipped out of the room, back toward his own wing of the house.

* * *

John had eventually been able to calm his own heart down from their evening, and he found himself waiting in the sitting room of his private bunker, unsure just what it was that he thought was going to happen.

A knock sounded on his door, and his heart accelerated right back to its former gallop as he stood, and went to answer it.

Sherlock was there, wide-eyed and slightly flushed, something manic in his crystal gaze. John stepped aside to let him in without a word, trying not to look around guiltily to make sure that no one saw Sherlock as he strode into the bunker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER WARNINGS:  
> -oral sex (dubiously/non consensual)  
> -facial/comeplay (" ")


	11. It's a Catch Twenty-Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "'You have my promise: I am here to protect you--in every way that I can.'”
> 
> Chapter soundtrack:  
> -"Poison" by Beyonce; Sherlock POV  
> -"We Found Love" by Rihanna; John POV  
> -"Right Kind of Wrong" by Leann Rimes; Both POV
> 
> Chapter title from "Poison."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay, loves, grad school and personal life have been madness. But we continue to persevere through! <3
> 
> ...side note, if Sherlock feels different in this chapter, it's because I fell in fucking love with Doctor Strange, and Benedict now has an even more diverse range of character traits inside my head. XD

As soon as John had closed the door and turned back around, Sherlock was already facing him again. He looked distressed, as if he had a question that he needed to ask; but he was clearly holding himself back.   

John frowned, taking an uncertain step towards him. “Sherlock? What’s wrong?”

The younger man was breathing heavily, but after another brief moment, he simply shook his head, then stepped closer and pressed his mouth against John’s almost aggressively. The doctor didn’t pull back from the contact, returning the kiss willingly enough, but he had to admit that he was a little unnerved by the desperation in Sherlock’s movements. He could taste tea on the younger man’s lips, something dark and bitter, the flavor stronger when Sherlock pushed his tongue into John’s mouth, who accepted the intrusion easily enough.

”Sherlock,” he murmured eventually, finally breaking their mouths apart, though he stayed close, one hand resting reassuringly on the taller man’s waist, seeking to ground him from whatever was causing this slight mania. “Tell me what’s wrong. Did he--what happened?”

Sherlock just shook his head again, his icy eyes troubled, and darkening with frustration as John held him off from resuming the kiss. “It doesn’t matter. And I can’t stay long, but I--I just needed to see you.”

John eyed him worriedly, but finally he nodded, unsure of what else he could do but say yes. If Sherlock needed him, he would do it. Whatever it was, always; John had no doubt about that. “Alright. Though someone will probably have seen you leaving the house.”

Sherlock waved off the concern, turning away from John with an impatient little flourish. “I am _allowed_ to go outside, I just never take advantage of that liberty; what’s the point. The grounds are no different from my rooms, aside from perhaps being colder. As long as it isn’t for a suspiciously long time, there’s no reason for me not to be out here, even late like this.”

John half-smiled, only a touch bittersweetly, though his voice remained level. “Suspicious...you mean, like coming to steal a snog with your bodyguard.”

The younger man paused, then turned to look back at John with a faint smile brushing his lips, some of the anxiety leaving his eyes as he realizing that John was teasing him. “Yes. That would be quite suspicious.” He moved forward again, some of his prior  panic edging away into a borderline-feline confidence that managed to steal John’s breath as he watched Sherlock approach him.

At the last second, though, John sidestepped him, twisting them both around so that it was Sherlock who ended up backed into the door to John’s bunker; the responding sigh of want he received was more than enough affirmation for John.

This time the kiss was mutually needy, all clashing tongues and teeth battling for command, Sherlock’s fingers clenching into the front of John’s shirt and clutching him closer. There was no more of the tentative, inquiring feeling of their time at Baker Street, earlier that day; this was a kiss between two men who were desperate to hold onto this moment, and be allowed to just have each other.

Sherlock’s hand slid slowly down John’s torso between their bodies, tracing over the planes of his chest and stomach toward the waistband of his jeans, and John only caught his hand to stop him when Sherlock actually went for the belt.

“Please,” Sherlock muttered, his tone almost bordering on petulant, and John huffed out a laugh at the sound of it, lifting the wandering hand to press a kiss to Sherlock’s palm.

“You’re taking advantage of how I feel when you ask for things so nicely,” he accused teasingly, and Sherlock merely grinned unrepentantly back at him. But John still had to shake his head in refusal, leaning in to whisper his words as he peppered more kisses along Sherlock’s jaw and throat. “We can’t, love. You just said yourself, you can’t stay long. The next time we can go into town and actually have a few hours, we’ll go back, alright? That’s when we can.”

Sherlock shuddered, both from his words and from the touch of John’s lips again his skin, and nodded shakily. “Alright. But you had better carry through with that promise.”

John smirked at the breathiness that had entered Sherlock’s voice, and daringly nipped a tiny bite into the taller man’s throat, making Sherlock whimper at the flash of pleasure-pain. John wished he could add more permanent marks, darken the other man’s alabaster skin up with bruises and bites and make an obvious claim on the other man’s beautiful body. _Perhaps someday._ “I’m a man of my word, Sherlock, don’t you worry.”

He finally forced himself to step back, only to grin at how totally debauched and needy Sherlock looked right then, flushed and panting, his chest heaving and pupils eclipsing the pale blue of his irises as he stared back at John hungrily. “Could definitely get used to seeing you like this.”

The younger man just rolled his eyes, but he had to smile, too, his face pinking further with pleasure at the heat in John’s eyes when he slid his gaze over him. “By all means, feel free to."

It took some reluctant urging, but Sherlock finally left, regretfully, after exchanging one last hasty kiss before John had to all but shove him out the door, laughing quietly at the younger man’s grasping fingers tugging on his sleeves before he let himself be driven out of the bunker.

John returned to his bedroom, collapsing across the bed and staring up at the ceiling, still smiling a little stupidly over the whole encounter. In the wake of the rush he got from feeling Sherlock pressed so pliantly up against him, open and receptive and so eager for his hands and mouth--John couldn’t find even a shred of guilt, or fear, anywhere in his heart.

* * *

Returning to the lounge for the rest of the work week proved to be...torturous. Sherlock was much more cheerful than usual; he became more talkative and witty, cracking jokes and making conversation over every thought, and he was much more prone to staring at John for a moment too long, frequently and seemingly obliviously.

But then, if John was being honest, he was hardly doing much better, and he had no desire to correct either of them for the reckless behavior.

They re-entered the lab halfway through the week, and Sherlock was a whirlwind of energy being back in his own element, running more odd and seemingly purposeless experiments, often enlisting John’s help on things he didn’t seem to _really_ need it for--such as holding papers, and steadying equipment for him.

All it seemed to be doing was give him excuses to stand too close, their bodies brushing intermittently, but John couldn’t say that he minded that very much at all.

“You’re going to get us in some real trouble,” John pointed out quietly, though he was smirking too much for it to be taken too seriously, while he was holding a tube of blue liquid steady while Sherlock made notes on the reactions taking place inside of the glass vial. The younger man reached up to adjust his hold on the test tube, his fingers trailing delicately over John’s, and his pale blue eyes were full of mirth as he glanced up at the older man through his impossibly long lashes.

“Half the fun,” he replied cheekily, making John snort in disbelief. He could well imagine how much “fun” it would be if Charles ever caught them touching so intimately, or whispering together so much, and took a closer look at their relationship.

But the doctor had no heart to reprimand Sherlock, no matter how badly he knew that he ought to. Being the responsible one had never held less appeal in his life.

He had the alternate weekend off, and although John wished he could spend it with Sherlock anyway, there was no excuse to justify doing so; eventually, John forced himself to just leave the Appledore property, rather than just sit in his bunker pining, wander around out on the lawn, staring up at the lounge windows like some kind of stalker.

John ended up calling Clara to see if she was free for lunch, and they met up at a little cafe downtown.

“Harry’s doing a lot better.” There were dark circles beneath his sister-in-law’s eyes as she smiled at him across the table, her expression tight with exhaustion. “She’s been sleeping more, which I’m told could mean the depression’s getting worse--but that means she also stays home a bit longer, instead of rushing off to the pub every night.”

John nodded slowly, his eyes downcast as his mind unwillingly turned from his own life back to his troubled sibling. “I’m glad, Cee. I could--if you ever need, I can come over and try to keep her busy at home, see if she can go a night not drinking at all.”

Clara shrugged, neither affirming nor denying that suggestion. Then she raised an eyebrow at him. “And you, Casanova? How is your not-affair going?”

John blushed despite himself, making his sister-in-law grin more widely at him. “Oh, progressed, have you? Confessed your love yet?”

He rolled his eyes, swatting a hand at her fondly. “No. Well--uh, we have kissed, though.” At Clara’s surprised noise, her eyebrows shooting upward, John sighed heavily. “I know, I know. It’s horrible. But Clara, I just...I’d give anything, you know? To see him happy.”

Her voice softened, though John could still see the worry darkening her kind hazel eyes. “I know, love. I really wish I had the perfect solution for you. But as long as your bloke is married, it’s...well, it isn’t really right. Has he considered getting divorced?”

 _If only_. John could only shrug slightly, glancing downward. “We haven’t talked about that yet.”

“I would ask him,” Clara encouraged gently. “Because if the idea upsets him, there’s a good chance he has no plans of leaving the spouse, and that’s no good for you, in the long run.”

John couldn’t imagine anything further from the truth--it seemed more than clear enough to him that whatever the mystery was surrounding Sherlock and Charles’ marriage, there was no genuine intimacy or love to be had there, and the younger man would happily leave the union in a heartbeat--but then again, perhaps Clara was right. Maybe Sherlock was just bored, and only seeking an outlet for his pent-up energy, but wasn’t actually interested in ending his marriage. He did have a very enjoyable life, after all, if a little lonely for such an active-minded person.

“Maybe,” John settled for saying softly, if only to appease Clara. “I mean, yes, you are right--it would...be a shame if he didn’t want out. But I don’t want to go planting the idea in his mind, in case they were going to make it through, you know?”

Clara snorted at that. “Well, they’ll be having trouble no matter what, if he comes clean about snogging someone else, don’t you think?” Her eyes sharpened playfully. “Was it more than just kisses, Johnny?”

He rolled his eyes at her again, affectionately kicking at her feet beneath the table. “You are nosier than your wife, you know that? No, we haven’t done more. Might do, though. Next time there’s an opportunity.”

“You’re shameless,” she shot back, shaking her head at him in mock-dismay. “If I didn’t know you so well, John, I’d call you a cad. The spouse must be awful, if you’re this cheerful about what amounts to having an affair.”

John sobered slightly at that, Charles Magnussen’s face leaping into his mind. “He--well, I hate to speak that way about my--about anyone,” he said, barely catching himself before he could make the dangerous error of mentioning that the spouse was his employer. “But...he is, really, he’s very unpleasant. I don’t know how they ended up married.”

Clara shrugged, picking at invisible lint on the front of her dress. “People fall in love with those they least expect to, usually. Including you, it seems. I do hope the husband--your bloke, I mean, not his man--isn’t just leading you on.”

John sighed quietly, sipping at his coffee. “Yeah. Me too.”

* * *

When he returned to Appledore later that evening, John was stopped by a voice calling his name as he headed back toward the barracks. He turned, surprised, to find Mr. Magnussen strolling toward him along the gravel path from the front of the main house.

“Dr. Watson,” his employer greeted him, wearing a light, pleasant smile. The usual hard lines of tension were gone from his shoulders, and he appeared almost happy, making his way slowly across the immaculately manicured grass. “I rather hoped I might catch you before you retired for the evening. I was wondering if perhaps tomorrow evening, when your hours are finished for the day, you might return to the house and join Sherlock and myself for supper?”

John was utterly speechless for a long moment. He couldn’t help wondering if this was just a very bizarre joke.

He was quiet a little too long, and Charles’ smile widened unnervingly, more like the expression John was used to seeing him wear. “I assure you, Dr. Watson, I have no ulterior motives in inquiring; I know that my husband would enjoy extending your presence in the house into the evening hours, and even I find myself rather tired of the silence, now and then."

At John’s continued lack of response, Magnussen chuckled quietly, removing his glasses and cleaning them slowly with a handkerchief that he drew from his breast pocket. “I certainly don’t wish to put you on the spot; if that would feel too much like blending your personal and professional lives, I more than understand.”

John blinked at that, managing not to laugh out loud at the suggestion; his professional life had already morphed over into his personal life, utterly and completely. “Uh--no,yes, sir, that would be--it would be an honor. I appreciate the invitation, Mr. Magnussen.”

The older man tilted his head, his eyes vanishing from view briefly behind the reflection of the yard lights in the lenses of his glasses, and then he nodded, smiling a touch more neutrally. “Delightful. See you tomorrow, Dr. Watson.”

* * *

Sherlock was quiet throughout the next day, far more subdued than he had been during the days previous, and when John wasn’t given the lab key at his morning check-in, they ended up spending the day in the lounge instead, with John reading and Sherlock playing music, without stop, pausing only briefly to eat when Mrs. Hudson brought them tea and sandwiches.

John found himself undeniably worried, afraid that between Sherlock’s too-obvious behavior of the past week, and the dinner scheduled for that evening...perhaps Magnussen had said something to his husband about the two of them; perhaps he knew, or suspected them of crossing a line. Maybe Sherlock would be afraid to be too close to John, now.

But right before he needed to go downstairs to sign out, having said next to nothing all day, Sherlock spoke up softly. “John.”

When John looked over at him expectantly, trying to hide his concerns from the younger man, his companion’s eyes were locked on him, burning brightly. “You _are_ coming back?”

John nodded slowly. “For dinner,” he replied tentatively, as if confirming Sherlock’s meaning. Of course he would be coming back to work, for as long as he still had his position; it would require Magnussen firing him, or Sherlock banishing him directly, for John to even consider walking away from him now.

He got a nod in return, and then when he spoke again, Sherlock’s voice was much smaller, his eyes dropping from John’s almost shyly. “Next time that we go out, into town--please, will you touch me?”

John’s eyes widened a little at the directness of the request, but he nodded cautiously, licking his lips and feeling his blood heat when Sherlock promptly looked at his mouth, before meeting his gaze again. “Yeah. Yeah, I will.”

He went downstairs to sign out for the night, then returned to his rooms to change clothes. Once he was more comfortable, relatively speaking, John made his way back to the main house and up the stairs, turning right and crossing the landing to knock lightly on the door to his boss’s private dining room.

Magnussen’s voice called out a polite welcome, and John entered slowly.

The dining table in this room was far too large for just three people to share, and John sat at the far end, while Sherlock was stationed between his husband and his bodyguard, enough room for two or three chairs between him and either end. Those spaces were empty, though, which only seemed to amplify the overall emptiness of the room, and the atmosphere felt dismal and cold.

John couldn’t help being grateful for the soft classical music that was drifting down through unseen speakers in the ceiling corners, because otherwise, it would have been awkwardly quiet as the three men ate, their silverware clinking softly the only sounds. He had to wonder if it felt this way when it was just the couple in front of him eating together, or if they at least conversed a little. Then again, he doubted Magnussen would be chatty about his work, and Sherlock’s daily routine was fairly repetitive. What would they have to talk about, after this many years of marriage?

Magnussen smiled across the long expanse of dark panelled wood at John, his gaze cutting briefly to Sherlock before returning to the doctor. “It has seemed that these frequent trips into town have brought some color back into Sherlock’s complexion. I’m delighted that you suggested them, Dr. Watson...and I know that Sherlock is grateful to you, as well.”

The younger man glanced up, barely meeting his husband’s gaze, and he nodded a little mechanically, though he did not turn to look at John when he replied. “Yes. Thank you.”

John inhaled slowly, wondering what kind of power play was going on, here. It felt almost as if he was a pawn being pulled back and forth between the spouses--though Magnussen couldn’t possibly _know_ , and still behave this calmly, could he? John pushed the thought away, putting on his best smile and trying to focus on staying on top of whatever game was being played. “It was nothing. I’m happy to be able to take him.”

“Oh, you’re being far too modest, Dr. Watson,” Magnussen replied, his tone abruptly much warmer than John had ever heard it before. “You have a very good nature, I can see that. I’m sure that that has served you well.”

He glanced over at Sherlock as his husband took a sip of his wine, pale eyes averted, and Charles’ smirk curved up higher, something knowing appearing in his gaze. “Though it surprises me, I must admit, to know that you’re still unmarried. Personality like yours, a caretaker and a healer, you seem the perfect candidate to be a caring and attentive husband.”

John hadn’t a clue where this was heading, but he couldn’t exactly state that he didn’t want to discuss his personal life--though, really, he supposed it would probably be legally fine to do so, considering that he was Mr. Magnussen’s employee, not his friend. But it still felt too risky, too close to being rude or evasive, under the present circumstances.

“I...just never found the right person,” he replied lightly, hoping that would suffice. “I enlisted in the military fairly young, so once training for that began, personal relationships just slipped from my mind. Just had my sister and her wife to worry about.”

“Ah, yes, family is, of course, essential,” Magnussen said, chuckling cordially as he finished his wine, then refilled it from the decanter sitting in front of his place setting. “I’m sure they’ve been delighted to have you back home, finished with your service to the country, and safe once more.”

John shrugged slightly, glancing down. Somehow, he found, he did not want to discuss Harriet and Clara with Mr. Magnussen, as if he was revealing some kind of weakness if he talked about his alcoholic sister and her struggling wife. “It is nice to see them regularly again, yes.”

It was quiet for a bit longer this time, and then Magnussen spoke again, as if the silences in the conversation were not awkward to him in the slightest. “So, now that you’re home for good--presumably, unless you think you might travel casually someday--perhaps intimacy is finally in the cards for you.”

John couldn’t stop himself from frowning a little, wondering why his employer was pushing the subject of his personal life so far, but he quickly smoothed his expression out again, and nodded, trying to mimic the bland expression that Magnussen wore so masterfully. “Could be, sir. I’ve certainly no objection to the idea.” He managed not to look at Sherlock as he said that, knowing without seeing it that the younger man would have reacted in some fashion--in his eyes, perhaps, or with a small smile--and John could not afford to see that right then. “I enjoy my job, though. Work is plenty fulfilling for me.”

Magnussen smiled a little wider, his glasses flashing in the soft light of the dining room, reflecting the flames from the fireplace that burned at the center of the far wall. “What a lovely thing to hear. You certainly have been an excellent addition to Appledore’s staff.”

The rest of the meal passed without incident or further uncomfortable dialogue, nothing more than passing pleasantries, although John had to work to conceal his desire to leave when dessert arrived, drawing the evening out further. He finally caught Sherlock’s eye--only glancing his way because he suspected that Magnussen had, by now, noticed their distinct lack of interaction compared to when John was in the lounge with Sherlock--and found that the younger man was watching him with tight eyes, as if he was pained that John has to sit through this with him.

After dessert was finished and cleared away, Mr. Magnussen stood up without preamble, setting aside his napkin and offering the two younger men a polite smile. “Well, Dr. Watson, I believe I shall bid you goodnight; I find myself pleasantly exhausted. It was wonderful having you join us this evening, I do thank you for taking the time.”

John smiled back at him tightly, standing as well to be courteous. “It was my pleasure, sir; thank you for the invitation.”

He hesitated to leave, unable to quite bring himself to leave Sherlock so abruptly. Before he could say something reckless though, Sherlock stood as well.

“May I return to my rooms?” he asked, and John inhaled a breath, sharp and silent. He did not know why, but hearing Sherlock ask permission that way, like a child whose father had just scolded him, made something sad and sick twist inside of John’s stomach.

“Of course.” Charles smiled at his husband, his expression softening marginally. “Have a good night, Sherlock.”

John hesitated one more time, glancing over at Sherlock, but the younger man wasn’t looking at him this time. He drew in a quick breath, then spoke before he can second-guess himself. “I can escort him back to his wing, if you like, sir.”

Both Charles and Sherlock looked over at him then, and John wondered if he’s just fucked them over royally. But Charles merely nodded, his expression sliding back to the normal slight smirk that he constantly seemed to wear around John. “Thank you, Dr. Watson, that’s very generous of you. Good night Sherlock; Doctor.”

Both men returned his nod mutely, and Charles retired into his own room without further ado. Sherlock turned to leave the dining room without another word, and John followed him at once, barely breathing, remaining a few steps behind Sherlock as they crossed the landing and headed into the lounge.

Once there, Sherlock went straight across the room and through the glass doors onto the balcony, and John followed him more slowly, wondering if Sherlock actually wanted him to remain. He didn’t appear to hear John follow him outside, and the doctor closed the door behind him, coming up to stand next to Sherlock wordlessly.

When he looked over, John was shocked and alarmed to see that Sherlock had tears of frustration brightening his eyes, and a hard pit settled low in John’s belly. Sherlock was still for a long moment, staring out over the lawn, and then he spoke, very quietly. “Every single minute, I’m terrified that you’re going to tell me that we can’t proceed.”

John’s eyes widened in realization, understanding now why Sherlock had looked so miserable the whole evening. He sighed, shaking his head and turning to face the other man, his gaze stern. “I’m not going to do that, Sherlock. You have my promise: I am here to protect you--in every way that I can.”

Sherlock finally looked over at him, seeming to read the sincerity in his companion’s face, and eventually he nodded shakily, not responding verbally to the reassurance.

John’s phone beeped in his pocket, and he pulled it out to see a text from Clara, asking about getting coffee together again soon. An idea struck him as he read her words, and John looked up, chewing his bottom lip thoughtfully. “Sherlock....would you like to meet my sister-in-law? The next time we’re in town, this weekend?”

Sherlock immediately brightened at the request, which was confirmation enough to John. Then the younger man paused, before asking slowly, “How would you introduce me to her?”

John smiled knowingly, raising his eyebrows a little teasingly. “Do you mean, will I tell her you’re my client...or my boyfriend?”

Sherlock nodded back at him, no humor in his face as he waited for the reply, and John reached out to touch his arm, very briefly. Safely. “I have a feeling that Clara would see right through me if I tried to lie. And I think we both know one which you’d prefer, anyway.”

Sherlock’s eyes softened, and a faint smile touched his lips, some of the week’s earlier cheekiness sliding into his expression, which was an enormous relief to John to see. “‘Lie’?”

John snorted at his lover’s fishing for compliments, shaking his head in mock-reprimand. “Don’t be stubborn, you know damn well how I feel about you.”

Sherlock just grinned back at him, nodding with unrepentant delight. “I...the same. But it is nice to hear it,” he added, wheedling a little, and John laughed.

”Prat,” John murmured fondly, and Sherlock just chuckled, shrugging in concession to the affectionately issued insult. John glanced down at his wristwatch, then sighed. “I need to go, love. If I stay much longer, it’ll seem odd. Tomorrow, then?”

Sherlock nodded, withdrawing from him slightly, though he looked far less distressed than he had as they left dinner. “See you then.”

John returned to his own rooms, undisturbed by anyone else on the walk from the main house. When he looked up as he crossed the lawn toward the barracks, Sherlock was no longer on the balcony, and the lounge was dark.

Back in his bedroom, John pulled out his phone, and texted Clara back.

[ **text** : Cee] _yes to coffee...and I’m going to bring someone special._

[ **text** : from Cee] _!!! Oh, you GIT <3 _

John barked a laugh at her response, tossing his phone onto the bedside table as he stripped down to head to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, there are some chapters ahead with really intense or dark content, and I think I'll start putting the trigger warnings up top, to make sure no one has any risk of being taken by very unpleasant surprise. That cool?


	12. Let Your Fears Fade Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’d have thought by now you would realize that I have no intention of refusing anything that you’re willing to grant me."
> 
> Chapter title from "Wanderer's Lullaby" by Adriana Figueroa.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, it's a month late, but I hope the contents make up for that. ;)
> 
> Chapter warnings....shmoopy smut?
> 
> Soundtrack:  
> -"The High Road" by Three Days Grace  
> -"Silver and Cold" by AFI  
> -"Wanderer’s Lullaby" by Adriana Figueroa)

They spent the majority of their time in the lab during the next two weeks, enjoying a fresh delivery of supplies, as well as one another’s company. Sherlock had no active projects occupying his ever-spinning mind, but he made the most of his time in the lab, showing off for John and demonstrating some of his favorite chemical reactions.

Halfway through the second week since their last trip to town, he was showing John the particularly lovely reaction between luminol and hydrogen peroxide, heads bent close together and shoulders brushing lightly as John leaned in to catch the faint blue glow, which reminded him inescapably of Sherlock’s eyes.

The door to the lab opened as John was handing him back the Erlenmeyer flask, and both men went still in surprise and alarm as Charles Magnussen entered the room, the door sliding silently closed behind him.

John managed to recover first, breaking the small point of contact between his and Sherlock’s hands and standing at attention with a polite, “Sir.” His heart was hammering despite his effort to appear calm, afraid that Magnussen had been watching them via the security cameras, and was confronting them at last over their over-familiarity.

But Charles just waved off his formal response, nodding in dismissal, and John stood at ease as his employer smiled at them both. “I can see that you two are having fun. I certainly don’t wish to intrude. Just wanted to give you a brief note, regarding your next trip out and about this coming weekend.”

Both John and Sherlock remained unmoving at that pronouncement, and Charles’ pale eyes glittered behind the lenses of his glasses as he chuckled at their expressions. “Oh, don’t look so nervous. I’d never deny you your outings,” he assured them, his eyes moving to rest on his husband alone as he said the words. John always knew that there was plenty between the two men that he might never understand; but at moments like this, he was more afraid of it, worried about whatever silent messages his employer was conveying to his husband right in front of John, helpless to interpret. “Sergeant Murray will be running some drills for me that Saturday, so you won’t have your usual escort in accompaniment. Dr. Watson--I assume that is alright with you?”

It took John a moment to find his voice again, and some effort to sound completely normal and not at all strained when he replied. “No--uh, yes, sir. I can definitely handle security alone.”

”Excellent.” Charles nodded briefly, stepping over to Sherlock’s other side and inspecting the remaining iridescent blue swirling in the flask that Sherlock had been showing John. “That looks beautiful, Sherlock.”

Giving his husband’s shoulder a light squeeze, Charles turned and left the lab again with as little noise as when he had entered, and John felt as if he could breathe once more, as if the air in the room had returned once the master of the house was gone.

Sherlock drained the solution and set his flask aside, his eyes unfocused as if he was lost in thought. He licked his lips, not looking up at John, but his expression became intent and almost hopeful. “We’ll be completely alone this time.”

John exhaled an almost tremulous laugh, his voice still shaky as he looked down at his companion. “We were going to meet Clara.”

Sherlock nodded, finally looking back at him, icy eyes glittering brightly. “We still will. But afterward..can we...go to Baker St?”

The memory of their first kiss flared hot and dark in John’s memory, and he found himself reimagining how that moment might have gone if they had not had the security team waiting in the car, and if Charles had not phoned to summon them home again. The unlimited possibilities of what might await the two of them, alone together in Sherlock’s flat.

”Yeah,” John murmured, swallowing roughly and nodding, holding Sherlock’s gaze without wavering. “We’ll go by.”

* * *

“Clara, this is--this is Sherlock.”

His sister-in-law stood up from the table outside the little cafe, her hazel eyes lighting up as she eyed the tall man hovering behind John’s shoulder. “It’s so lovely to meet you,” she said kindly, and John did not miss the fact that when Sherlock drew up a third chair after the two had shaken hands in greeting, Clara’s eyes flickered down to the plain silver band that he wore on his left hand.

There was no judgment visible, though; John could tell that she was simply noting whether or not Sherlock wore his wedding ring when he was with John.

He smiled reassuringly at Sherlock as they both sat down, and the waitress came over to take their coffee orders. Once they were alone again, Clara leaned forward, smiling with sincere warmth.

“John’s only told me a little about you, of course, but I’m so glad that you came with him. The way he’s spoken about you, I knew you had to be special.”

John laughed softly, noticing the way that Sherlock sheepishly ducked his head at the praise, and the soldier took the risk of reaching out to squeeze his companion’s arm briefly, before withdrawing his hand. They had discussed it during the drive into London, with the privacy screen up to avoid the driver overhearing; they would still need to be careful with physical contact, outside the walls of Baker St. Not being assigned guards did not mean they could guarantee that they weren’t observed, and they did not need suspicion getting back to Charles--or even Bill, who might worry that John was getting out of line.

Sherlock shot him a grateful look for the small gesture of affection, then focused a bright smile at Clara, no trace of unease in his eyes. “Well, John might be a little biased. I’m perfectly ordinary, I assure you."

“That’s impossible,” Clara said decisively, beaming back at him. “Johnny’s far too good a soul. For him to care for someone, they have to be fantastic.”

“See, now, you’re being the biased one, because you know that I love you,” John interjected, taking some of Clara’s attention off of his blushing partner, and both Clara and Sherlock laughed gamely at that.

“Valid, I s’pose, I am fantastic,” Clara conceded, winking cheekily. “Really, I just wanted to say hello to John, and spend some time together. And knowing that I’d get to meet his fella, I thought that was pretty wonderful, as well.”

Sherlock was very visibly pleased at how openly she acknowledged their relationship, though he managed admirably to conceal his pleasure at being referred to as Jonn’s; it was only because the doctor knew him well that he caught the glimmer of pride in the younger man’s eyes. “Well, John has sung nothing but praises for you as well, Mrs. Watson. I’ve been very eager to get to know you personally, considering his regard for you.”

“Goodness, call me Clara,” she retorted, snorting. “I’m far too young to be ‘Mrs. Watson,’ thank you. Besides, it’s not as if--”

She stopped herself there, and John could see the slight shadow that crossed her eyes; he knew without clarifying where that train of thought had been heading. “Harry’s...back to it, then?” John asked, his voice gentle.

His sister-in-law hesitated, then nodded, sighing. “Back to the pubs every night, till all hours. But I s’pose it means we fight less often, since I’m rarely awake to see her stumble back in. And I leave for work before she gets up every day. ...I’m so sorry, Sherlock, marital drama is hardly suitable ‘getting to know you’ talk.”

“Oh, I don’t mind at all,” Sherlock assured her, sipping at his coffee and then adding a little more sugar. “I’m no stranger to it. In fact, I have a feeling that you and I will be able to engage with candor.”

There was a pause, but before John could be worried about the bluntness of that statement, Clara tilted her head, and offered the dark-haired man a solemn, knowing smile. “I think you might be right, Sherlock. If I may--you’re always welcome to talk to me, about any of that. John can give you my number. Not to say he isn’t an excellent listener, but I imagine I’ll relate a little more clearly on that topic.”

John stared at his sister-in-law in amazement, hearing the words for what they really meant; she could see the pain and shadows in Sherlock’s face as clearly as John always could, and she was not turning a blind eye, as so many others did. From the way she was gazing at Sherlock with utter seriousness, John sensed that she could now see just why he was so certain that Sherlock wasn’t just leading him on, with whatever it was going on between them.

Sherlock, for his part, looked a little stunned by the offer, but recovered enough to smile warmly, nodding his thanks. “Thank you, Clara, I will remember that.”

* * *

By the time they said goodbye to Clara and had headed to Baker St, it was mid-afternoon. Sherlock had already texted Magnussen regarding a curfew, needing the assurance of a secure time parameter; they were assured they had the rest of the day, and reminded not to be out too long after dark.

John’s heart was skidding up into his throat when Mrs. Hudson let them in, sending them upstairs with little fuss once Sherlock had properly greeted her, and assured her he was as well as he had been when she had seen him at Appledore yesterday. John tried to tell himself that  he was imagining the knowing glint in the older woman’s eyes as he followed Sherlock up the stairs--though he had to remind himself that she also loved Sherlock. If Mrs. Hudson did see what was between them, John had a strong feeling she wouldn’t say a word against it.

Upstairs, John did not hesitate to close and lock the door behind them, his eyes on Sherlock as the taller man went to adjust the temperature in the flat, warming the air around them, and then removed his outer coat and gloves, before turning back to face John from in front of the fireplace.

“You know that we can just sit and read--or have supper here--whatever you like,” John told him, quietly, and Sherlock snorted.

“I’d have thought by now you would realize that I have no intention of refusing anything that you’re willing to grant me, John,” he replied, low and steady, no uncertainty in his voice. “Unless that offer is made out of a personal desire to withdraw from--”

“God, no,” John interrupted him before he could finish that ridiculous thought, his voice now slightly strained from the suggestion that he could ever be the one putting a stop to their forward momentum. “Do you have any idea--what a bloody torment it is, being in the same room as you and _not_ touching you?”

Sherlock stilled at the heat in John’s words, tilting his head and gazing at the other man with something curious and somehow hopeless in his shimmering gaze. “I can’t say that I do, no. I’m almost _too_ afraid to touch you--as if you might break, or vanish into smoke, if I do.”

John inhaled deeply, then crossed the room and grabbed one of Sherlock’s hands, lifting it to rest it palm-flat over his chest, so that Sherlock could feel the hammering of his heart. “I’m not going to vanish,” he said simply. “I--I will do whatever you want, Sherlock.”

The younger man smiled, very faintly, and his fingers flexed against John’s jacket lapel, as if he wanted to draw the doctor closer. “Is it utterly ridiculous and overly-sentimental that the first thought I have is to ask you to make love to me?”

For a moment, John did not know what to say to that, overwhelmed by the simple sincerity of the words; but finally he shook his head, clearing his throat until he found his voice again. “I don’t think that’s ridiculous at all. In fact, I’d be very much delighted to oblige you.”

Turning his hand over and sliding it down until he could tangle his fingers with John’s, Sherlock nodded and turned, moving through the dark, empty little kitchen and down the hallway, into a room John had not yet seen.

It was a bedroom, simple and bare, the bed made with precision and clearly undisturbed for an indefinable amount of time. The wardrobe and dresser drawers hung open, all empty, and an abandoned music stand stood beside an bare coat rack in the corner, faded music sheets left behind on the wire bars.

John took it all in in seconds, and then found himself facing a wide-eyed, pale-faced Sherlock, leaning back against the door that he had closed behind them. “John...”

He held out his hands in invitation without another word, and Sherlock obeyed at once, coming forward to meet him. John’s hands cupped around the taller man’s face, drawing him into a hard, heated kiss, and he breathed a laugh when Sherlock moaned softly at the touch. “You’re so bloody responsive,” he whispered, and Sherlock shook his head, drawing back to smile wryly.

“I would never have said that I was, but it’s...you bring it out in me,” he replied, and John smirked.

“Well, that’s hardly a bad thing. Come on, love--I’d say we’re overdressed, wouldn’t you?”

He turned them both toward the bed, and Sherlock sank down to sit on the edge, creasing the crisp, beige bedspread. Sherlock drew John downward, and the older man came in for the kiss willingly, sliding his fingertips down Sherlock’s long throat, along the lines of his shoulders, under the crisp black fabric of his jacket in order to push it gently off. They didn’t break the kiss as Sherlock shook his jacket all the way off, managing unsteadily to hang it over the sleek wood of the footboard without pulling away from John’s lips.

John did not stop there, his hands moving to the front of Sherlock’s shirt, and the younger man exhaled shakily as the doctor began unbuttoning the stiff white garment, baring inch after inch of his chest until the shirt hung open, exposing him.

John finally drew back only then, and Sherlock stilled, staring up at him with lips parted and eyes darkening uncertainly as he evaluated the older man’s expression. “John?”

The doctor smiled faintly, reaching out to stroke his fingers down over Sherlock’s collarbones, and over the smooth expanse of his chest, feeling him shiver at the delicate touch. “You’re so fucking gorgeous, Sherlock. Almost hard to believe that you’re real.”

The younger man blushed again, looking down at himself as if to check what John was seeing. “I know that I’m much too thin.”

John merely snorted dismissively, cupping the younger man’s jaw and forcing his face back up. “Well, we can fix that with time. You’re bloody beautiful, all the same. Should I--?”

“Yes,” Sherlock cut him off, standing up impatiently, and John huffed a laugh as the taller man began tugging at the jumper he always wore over his shirts on his off-days, dragging the heavy cotton up until it could slide off of John, half-taking his button-down off with it. Sherlock was on that garment at once, undoing it far more quickly than John had stripped his off, and the doctor shuddered when he felt those long, talented fingers ghosting over his bare torso, exploring him with feather-light touches that nearly tickled, but more served to fan the fire within him.

“Sherlock,” he groaned, and the younger man froze, looks up at him with raw hunger in his eyes at the sound of his name on John’s lips. “How should we...”

Sherlock’s hands reached for the front of his trousers, and John held still, letting him set the pace. Looking awed at having the freedom to do this, Sherlock tentatively unbuttoned and unzipped John, then crouched down, carefully working the stiff denim down his legs. John remained where he was, letting Sherlock do as he pleased, stepping out of the pants when able to. His entire brain was in flames, seeing Sherlock kneeling before him like this, but he didn’t move, couldn’t speak, in case it somehow broke the spell of the moment.

Sherlock reached for his boxers, then paused as if needing permission, and John smirked. “Go ahead, love. I’m all yours.”

Sucking in a breath, Sherlock hooked his fingers in the elastic, and drew them down, baring John’s erection.

The wounded little whimper that he let out, when he saw it, speared through John like a heated blade, and he could not help reaching out to touch Sherlock’s face. “You okay?”

Sherlock nodded immediately, turning to brush a kiss to John’s palm. “I’m wonderful.”

He stood back up abruptly, and nudged John until the doctor obligingly slid up to lie on the bed, naked and curious what Sherlock was planning to do.

Standing beside the bed, Sherlock watched John with bright eyes, sliding his gaze hungrily over every inch of the doctor’s bared body. John felt illuminated, but not unpleasantly so, as he felt those all-seeing eyes glance over the scar on his shoulder, the firm muscles of his upper body, and the much less severe scarring on his “bad” leg.

Then the younger man was undoing his own expensive trousers, and John found himself truly unable to breathe. Sherlock took down his underwear in the same movement, and when he straightened back up, John shuddered violently, staring at the bare body in front of him with undiluted need. “Sweet Christ, Sherlock, you’re...fuck, you’re stunning.”

Sherlock grinned at that, looking far younger than his twenty-nine years, and then climbed up to straddle John, making the older man groan deeply at the rub of skin on skin. “You’re biased,” Sherlock whispered, making John snort at the inside joke from their lunch with Clara--but he didn’t waste his breath replying, just dragged Sherlock down into a hard, plundering kiss.

Feeling all of that bare flesh against his own, John could have easily forgotten time itself, his own name, everything outside of this room. It is all just Sherlock, rutting lightly against him, whispering words of want and need against the older man’s mouth.

Eventually Sherlock lifted his head, staring down at John with hard need glowing in his sapphire eyes. “Please, John--can you--?”

John just nodded his agreement, and Sherlock paused, then smirked and reached into the bedside table, bringing out a small tube of lubricant. “I kept my home stocked,” he explained, and John snorted, taking it from him and checking that it wasn’t well past its sell date.

“Cheeky bugger,” he murmured, and Sherlock laughed smugly, shifting upward as John poured some lube onto his fingertips. “Are you sure--”

“Has to be this way,” Sherlock said firmly, grasping John’s wrist and moving his glistening fingers between his own thighs, until John felt the hot furl of the younger man’s entrance under the slick pad of his index finger. “Please, John, I need--want this experience. To have you in me, please.”

“Of course, love,” John whispered, pressing carefully down to test. Sherlock immediately gasped, spine going rigid, but he was nodding at the same time.

“Do it. Yes, please, just--do it.”

John held his breath as he began to work his fingers forward, rubbing gently until he felt Sherlock’s hole loosen and relax for him. Within a moment, he was able to slide one digit inside, and Sherlock let out the most beautiful sound, as if he had been waiting for this experience his entire life.

He looked down, meeting John’s eyes, and the doctor was instantly entranced by the sheer depth of pleasure in those glittering glasz eyes, overwhelmed by how much Sherlock obviously needed this. “More?”

At Sherlock’s affirming nod, John slowly added a second finger; and once he had both easily sliding inside of the younger man, he twisted his hand lightly, the pad of his middle finger brushing delicately over Sherlock’s prostate. John knew the instant he found it, because the younger man jolted in shock, and a startled little cry slipped from him. His head fell back again, hands turning claw-like on John’s shoulders, and he began writhing in place, forcing John’s fingers in deeper.

It wasn’t long until he could get a third in at least halfway, and John gasped in a breath when Sherlock finally looked at him again, shimmering eyes dancing with green and blue and grey. “How--how are you--?”

Sherlock hummed a laugh, and leaned down, kissing John and letting his tongue sweep inside of the older man’s mouth. “Bloody fabulous. Want it, John, please--your cock, now, please?”

John moaned weakly, nodding, and worked his fingers free. “‘S going to be tight like this.”

“Good.” Sherlock remained hunched over him, staring into John’s eyes intently. “Want to feel every single centimeter of it. Now, please.”

John stared back at him breathlessly, and finally huffed out a laugh, grabbing the lube and adding some more to his fingers, then reached down with a shaking hand to smear it along his cock. “...should wear a condom.”

Sherlock made a dismissing noise, not even hesitating over that. “There’s a shower here. I need you, John. All of you.”

Holding the younger man’s gaze, John nodded without argument, then glanced down at Sherlock’s erection, bobbing against his pale belly. “Do you want--”

“Afterward,” Sherlock said impatiently, shifting so that his hole rubbed over the head of John’s cock, and grinning as he dragged a gasp out of him. “Just fuck me, John, come _on_."

John groaned something close to a laugh, shaking his head at the younger man’s adamence. Holding his cock in place, he tugged down on Sherlock’s hips, and Sherlock sank down on top of him, slowly taking John inside his body.

Both cried out when Sherlock was fully completely seated, and there was such a look of raw wonder and awe in his face that it took the doctor’s breath away to see it. “Sherlock...” John whispered, unable to think of what to say. Being inside of Sherlock went beyond any concept of perfection that he had ever imagined--there were no words.

Sherlock’s eyes sank closed at the way John spoke, and he sighed quietly, a serene little smile touching his cupid’s bow lips. “Keep saying my name, John. Please.”

John chuckled, squeezing his lover’s hips soothingly. “Sherlock. Stay with me, love.”

Opening his eyes again, the younger man nodded, his eyes bright and sharp. “Wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.”

He slid his entire body upward, and John’s breath caught before getting punched back out of his lungs when Sherlock sank back down, a little harder, and both men groaned deeply. “ _Fuck_ , I never--never knew it could be this way,” Sherlock growled, and John’s heart stuttered inside his chest.

“You never--I mean, not--” He didn’t know how to ask; for a heartbeat, John was truly terrified by the possibility that Sherlock’s first time had been in his seemingly loveless marriage, and that John was almost senselessly making his first real experience with sex into something trivial.

Sherlock snorted, leaning down to kiss him again, hard, commanding his attention and dissipating John’s fears. “No,” he whispered. “I’ve had decent sex before. But I’ve never had--this, it’s never been like _this_.”

John smiled faintly in agreement, reaching up to cup his face gently. “I understand,” he promised, drawing Sherlock into a longer, sweeter kiss. “I’ve got you.”

Sherlock found his rhythm then, and began riding John in earnest, long-fingered hands braced on his chest and narrow hips and thighs flexing as he worked himself up and down. The doctor let him have complete control, blue eyes soft as he watched Sherlock use John’s body for his own pleasure.

It didn’t take long in the end, although that was hardly surprising. John could not take his eyes off of Sherlock, captivated by every little movement the younger man made--from the way his head tossed in his ecstasy, eyes remaining locked on John’s, to the flexing of his lean arms, fingers dragging roughly across the doctor’s chest, and down to the swiveling of his hips as he worked himself on John’s cock, riding the older man as if this was all he had ever wanted in life.

When John came, it was with a barely-managed warning groan, which Sherlock answered by more enthusiastically sliding himself up, and then slamming back down, taking John in all the way, and a manic grin lit the dark-haired man’s face when John cried out his name nearly incoherently, his climax crashing over him like a tsunami.

When he finally stopped shuddering, John was panting and gasping helplessly, and Sherlock laughed delightedly at the sight of him. “You look so stunning like this, John,” he whispered, and John blushed, huffing a laugh.

“Your turn?” he asked hoarsely, but Sherlock only shrugged in response, looking down at his erection as if confused by its presence.

“I suppose,” he whispered back. “I--it’s been a very long time, John.”

John raised his eyebrows at that, and then rolled them both over smoothly, making sure that he did not slide out of the younger man just yet. John nodded down at Sherlock, leaning in to kiss him tenderly, and breathed the words into his mouth. “That’s alright, love, I’ll take care of you. I’ll make it good, promise.”

He worked one hand between their bodies, fingers closing around Sherlock; and John watched, transfixed, as Sherlock seemed to come apart instantly beneath his touch. The younger man arched up into John with a cry that cut off into a soundless, open-mouthed look of sheer awe, and his ass clenched down shockingly tight around the older man’s spent cock, making John groan from the depths of his soul.

Sherlock’s release spilled over John’s fingers and smeared between their bellies when he came, pulse after pulse shooting until John had to give a strangled, amazed laugh at the sheer volume of it. “You’ve been waiting a _damn_ long time,” he grunted, and Sherlock snorted, staring at him with sex-glazed eyes.

“Worth the wait, though,” he murmured, and John smirked, leaning in for one last kiss, sweaty and sated.

“Completely worth it.”

* * *

They shared the shower, small though it was, and definitely took far longer than was necessary. Sherlock could not seem to keep his hands to himself, which John did not mind in the slightest, and by the time they emerged, the water was running completely cold.

”It’s well past supper time,” he remarked, once they were back in the bedroom. John slowly tugged on his boots, then stood to find his wristwatch and buckle it on. “We should get home soon.”

Sherlock turned around, slowly buttoning his shirt up. His face spasmed slightly, but he merely nodded, dropping his eyes to focus on his task without saying anything.

John sighed at that, going over to bat Sherlock’s hands aside and finish buttoning his shirt for him, then used his hold on the bottom of the garment to draw Sherlock in, brushing a light kiss to his lips. “We’ll find ways to be together,” he promised, low and firm. “We just have to be careful. I’m sorry, love, but I swear we’ll make it work.”

Sherlock’s eyes softened, some of the resentment bleeding back out, and he nodded back. “I know. I’m sorry for looking cross. I just--I always want to touch you.”

John let out a hummed laugh, because there was no disagreeing with that; the desire was mutual. “And so you shall, whenever we can get away with it. As long as we’re discreet about it, I’ll certainly never stop you.”

Once they are both dressed and presentable again, they headed downstairs, and ran into Mrs. Hudson. She offered them supper, which they accepted gladly. Neither said it or so much as looked at the other, but John knew; they returned to the house full, there would be less chance of Sherlock being drawn into a meal with his husband, and they could both go to bed buzzing with the pleasure of what they had shared tonight.

“You’re much happier these days, Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson remarked, passing him the roast for a second course. “I can see so much more light in your eyes. Dr. Watson, you’ve been wonderful for him.”

John paused, looking over at her in surprise, but she just smiled warmly; there is no warning or hint of malice, in either her tone or expression. “Thank you,” John said finally, smiling back timidly. “I hope I’ve done him some good.”

Sherlock snorted at his modesty, cutting his meat into small pieces before spearing one with his fork. “Mrs. Hudson has seen me at both my best and at my worst. I’d take her word for it, when it concerns me” he said cheerfully, giving John a cheeky smile, and the older man rolled his eyes, nudging his lover with his foot under the table as Mrs. Hudson laughed and patted Sherlock’s hand fondly.

When they arrived back at Appledore, just after dark, the usual stillness settled over Sherlock, as if he was sliding back into the mentality that he needed in order to survive being here.

Once John had them checked back in at the security station, there was nothing else for it but to simply bid one another goodnight, their eyes holding a moment too long before John had to go, leaving Sherlock in Wilkes’ hands. The burning need in Sherlock’s eyes was almost impossible to turn his back on, but John managed, his entire body feeling the weight of the younger man’s gaze on him as he walked back out of the house, leaving Sherlock behind for the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll admit, their first time turned out WAY shmoopier than I expected!


	13. Gonna Find a Way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I should’ve realized it was going to be like this. Should’ve bloody known I’d be fucking addicted once I’d had a taste.”
> 
> Chapter title from "Find a Way" by Safetysuit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI.
> 
> I'M ALIVE.
> 
> ....I got addicted to the Walking Dead and also grad school is a brutal motherf*cker.

John had anticipated the fact, of course, had known that it would be the case--but still, somehow, he was not prepared for just how infinitely more difficult it would be to maintain a safe physical distance from Sherlock, after having had him so intimately. It was outright painful, in fact, to enter the lounge on the next day, and to see the younger man sitting there looking so surreal and beautiful, and to not be able to lean in and kiss him.

Sherlock looked up from his book as John entered the lounge, and when he smiled, John couldn’t decide if the expression looked devious genuinely, or if it was his own imagination finding that spark of smug laughter in the younger man’s iridescent eyes. “Good morning, Dr. Watson.”

Smiling as naturally as he could manage to, given the way his pulse skyrocketed just from seeing the man, John crossed to sit next to Sherlock in the other armchair, his own eyes sparkling. “Good morning. Did you sleep well?” he asked, aiming to sound as he always must in here--positive, simply interested in Sherlock’s happiness and well-being, and not as if his entire body was thrumming with pleasure and desire just from their proximity.

But of course, Sherlock wasn’t going to go easy on him; bookmarking his place and setting aside his book, he licked his lips slowly, and John’s breath snagged in his throat as he followed the flashing glimpse of wet pink muscle, eyes narrowing when he realized that Sherlock was doing it utterly on purpose.

“I slept quite well,” Sherlock replied, his tone light and airy. “Deeper than I have in quite some time, actually. It was a very good night.”

John swallowed, endeavoring to remember how he would normally behave during work--what on earth did he used to do with his hands? If he had known it would be this maddening--well, no, John knew that nothing could have stopped him from pursuing Sherlock, and from sharing what they had at Baker Street.

But this, now, was  _ truly _ frustrating, and it took extreme willpower to make himself sit back in the armchair, folding one leg over the other knee, smiling blandly as Sherlock picked his book back up, seemingly pleased with his success at flustering his lover.

“Christ,” John muttered, and Sherlock flicked a glance up at him, those impossible eyes glittering with amusement through the dark fans of his long lashes. “I should’ve realized it was going to be like this. Should’ve bloody known I’d be fucking addicted once I’d had a taste.”

As he had hoped, his words amplified the heat in Sherlock’s eyes, something dark, hungry, and warning flickering to life in their depths; it seemed that two could tease. John wondered if Sherlock really had any comprehension of how he affected the doctor, just by being this near.

“I can’t imagine how ordinary people function on a daily basis,” Sherlock replied, idly turning a page of his book. “How they get by in public, if they wanted another person this...badly.” He smirked, not looking up, but John could feel the man’s senses trained on him like a physical thing. “I suspect I would be arrested for public indecency almost constantly.”

That made John chuckle appreciatively, finding it bizarrely easy to imagine an alternate universe where he and Sherlock could be open about their affection--and in that world, he had no doubt that the man would be downright mischievous about touching him when they were out and about in London. “The number of ASBOs we’d get written,” he murmured, smirking, and Sherlock grinned as well, his cheeks flushing slightly, though he didn’t look up from his book.

There wasn’t opportunity to be alone together that day, or the next, and John found himself almost vibrating with nervous energy and need by the middle of the week. In the afternoon, they moved the chairs nearer to the windows, the watery sunlight dripping in over them, and he sat silently, unable to focus on reading or anything other than Sherlock, watching the younger man’s nimble fingers as he drew in his sketchbook.

It occurred to him that Sherlock never did show him his work, though he still caught the man glancing over at him now and then; and now, after what they had shared, John felt a new boldness. “What do you enjoy drawing most?” he asked out of nowhere, smiling knowingly when Sherlock stilled, as if startled to be caught in his moment of concentration.

Sherlock paused, then smiled a little dryly. “I always just draw whatever is making me less miserable at any given time,” he said, glancing down at his work again. He pursed his lips, then shrugged, closing the pad completely and offering it to John.

The older man accepted it, flipping through the pages; what he saw made John stop, and he slowed down on turning the pages. It was sketch after sketch of himself, either complete or partial, all with intense focus paid to his eyes, lips, or hands, depending on what pose or part of him Sherlock had been drawing in each one.

John raised his eyes to look at Sherlock again, surprised, and the younger man blushed again, more deeply. “I apologize, if it seems alarming,” he commented quietly. “I just...I liked looking at you. And I wanted to try and save every glimpse I had to memory.”

“It’s fine,” John interjects at once, not wanting his lover to feel judged. “It’s actually rather nice, to see myself through your eyes, like this.” He looked down again, noting that the page he was on showed his face, the most detail drawn into his lips, curved up into a knowing little smile. “I like seeing into your mind.”

His assurances seemed to work; Sherlock relaxed, looking pleased at providing him with that insight, and nodded. When John handed him back the sketchbook, Sherlock turned back to the current piece--which appeared to be John’s legs, crossed comfortably--and resumed working, smiling a little smugly now.

John didn’t move, letting him continue, and simply sat back to watch Sherlock work, blue eyes soft and full of affection.

* * *

Thursday morning, he found Sherlock standing outside on the veranda when he clocked in, and John paused by the fountain, somehow surprised to see Sherlock in an outdoor setting while still in the context of the Appledore estate. He was leaning on the railing, staring off into the space, but his shoulders loosened at the sound of John’s footsteps, and the doctor smiled as he stepped outside, moving to stand beside him.

“I used to smoke, when I lived at Baker Street,” Sherlock remarked at random. John raised his eyebrows at the words, turning to lean back against the railing so that he could see Sherlock and the interior of the lounge simultaneously, his instincts still guiding him to be on guard.

“Oh?”

Sherlock nodded, shrugging slightly as he glanced toward John, then back down at the yard. “It helped me to think. Or I would use nicotine patches, to get the same jolt. But I was smoking so much that Mycroft was worried for my lungs.”

John snorted, easily able to envision the wry, stark way that the older Holmes brother would assert his concern for his brother’s health. John could all-too-easily  _ also _ imagine how stubborn and willful a younger, less troubled Sherlock would have been, wanting to do things his own way and uncontrollable.. “Well, don't expect different from me. I am a doctor, after all,” he teased, and Sherlock grinned over at him.

“Yes, yes. I know you're determined to keep me healthy and happy.” He straightened up, and sighed softly. “I wish that we could go into town whenever we like. I enjoy the walking. And eating there.”

John smirked, eyes dancing a little merrily. “Oh yes. You just like going into town for the food.”

His lover gave him a knowing, playfully scandalized look, icy eyes twinkling with laughter he couldn’t voice. “Well, of course. I'm a London native, there's hardly anything else of interest to me out there.”

There were footsteps inside the lounge, and they both looked back inside to see Mrs. Hudson enter, carrying a tray with what appeared to be tea and biscuits. “Morning, boys,” she called out cheerfully, setting the tray in the far corner, back between their armchairs. “I came into work early today, so I thought I'd bring you a mid-morning nip. Need anything else, perhaps something heavier?”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock said warmly, crossing back into the lounge and going to join her. He placed one hand on her shoulder with a grateful squeeze, pure affection in his expression and body language as he gazed at his housekeeper. “That was very thoughtful of you. I think this is sufficient for me, this early in the day--Dr. Watson? Do you need more?”

The formal use of his name sounded odd on Sherlock's lips at this point, but John managed not to react to it, shaking his head as he followed the younger man back indoors. “No, that looks splendid. Very kind of you, yes. Thank you.”

Patting Sherlock's back fondly, Mrs. Hudson slipped back out, and John chewed on his bottom lip, waiting until Sherlock had claimed his armchair before sitting down next to him. 

“Sorry, I know that must have sounded strange,” Sherlock commented, smiling at him as he prepared his own tea. “I do know she wouldn't mind at all, if I simply called you by your first name, but I suspect I'll maintain better control over my tongue if I remember to consistently address you more formally, in here.” 

John nodded at once, reaching out to pick up a biscuit. “Of course, Sherlock. That’s fine by me,” he assured him, not wanting Sherlock to think he would upset John by any measures taken to protect them. There was far too much at stake to be careless, here.

They ate their light breakfast in companionable quiet for a short while, but eventually, John's curiosity got the best of him. He had been contemplating the layout of Sherlock’s wing of the house, trying to place the structure of the security network in a logical manner. “Sherlock?” he asked softly, and the other man looked at him, raising his eyebrow at his lowered tone.

John drew a deep breath. “Are there also cameras in your library and bedroom?”

Sherlock paused as he was eating a biscuit, then finished it, brushing crumbs from his fingers before he replied.

”In the library, there is one,” he confirmed, also quietly. “But the one in my bedroom is only aimed toward the window--my bed and bathroom are unmonitored.”

_ Because there was no escape from those areas _ . The words weren't said aloud, but John still heard them, and they terrified him if he thought too deeply on them.

To be fair, it would seem unreasonable to anyone but Mr. Magnussen for Sherlock’s bathroom and sleeping space to be under surveillance, but the unspoken threat of watching eyes still hovered over him. But now wasn't the time to address it.  


John swallowed again, to clear his throat and be sure his voice would be steady, then set down his tea. “Could we--be seen on-camera from the hallway, if I'm looking into your library from the doorway?”

Sherlock's brow furrowed at the question, clearly trying to work out why John would do what he was describing, rather than simply entering the library. But then his face cleared, and understanding sparked in his eyes. “Ah. No, no you wouldn't be.” A tiny smile touched his lips. “Did you want to browse for a book from the library, John?”

The older man nodded slowly, eyes burning as he held Sherlock’s gaze. “I think I would like to see what’s in there, yes.”

They stood up together, and Sherlock led the way into the far hallway, John keeping a careful few feet of space between them. Sherlock paused at the library doorway, the unnatural stillness that swept over his body telling John that as of that moment he was out of view of either the lounge cameras, or the library one--and John took full advantage.

One gentle push turned Sherlock back around toward him, cradled in the shadowy alcove of the doorway that led into the library; and before the younger man could utter a sound at the sudden movement, John’s mouth was on his.

They kissed as if they were both drowning for it, a hungry rumble echoing deep inside of Sherlock’s chest, and John growled back quietly, cradling Sherlock’s face between his hands and nipping softly at his bottom lip, his tongue slipping in to taste Sherlock as if he would never be able to again.

They broke apart fairly quickly, and Sherlock gazed at him with wide, glassy eyes, a smile touching his now-gleaming lips. “Needed that, did you.”

John merely snorted, sliding his hands around Sherlock’s waist and tugging him closer to let his knee bump between the younger man’s thighs, and Sherlock whimpered softly, to John’s utter delight. “Oh, like you don’t,” he retorted, grinning knowingly.

“Fuck, of course I do,” Sherlock shot back, and John’s grin widened.

In the main hallway, beyond the lounge, there was noises from the rest of the staff, and John stiffened. He dropped his hands, but Sherlock grumbled in protest, seizing his wrists to stop him from withdrawing.

“Bedroom,” he rasped out, and John followed without a word of protest, letting Sherlock lead them until he was standing in the corner behind the doorless opening into his bedroom--John had never noticed before that there was no door on the frame, but he noticed it now, as well as the fact that the bed was in clear view of the lounge, and the hall beyond it--but he didn’t dwell on the fact, turning to the right to follow Sherlock, who had backed into the wall with an expectant look on his face.

John looked up, finding the one camera in this room, and he could see that Sherlock was right; it had no swivel capability, and was aimed at the floor-to-ceiling window on the far side of the room. “You’re sure?”

Sherlock nodded, his eyes burning. “Very. He may--be how he is, but he can’t exactly justify taking away  _ all  _ privacy from me. I think your Sergeant Murray would be too good a man to ignore a possessive move that bold.”

John bit down on a surge of furious confusion, less than a breath away from asking why on earth Sherlock lived here, was married to this man--but a flicker of haunted fear crossed his lover’s face. “Don’t,” Sherlock whispered, holding out a beseeching hand toward him, his body begging for them to resume their previous activity. “I’d only lie, and I don’t want to be dishonest with you, John. Please.”

It burned like acid in his throat, but the doctor nodded, accepting the offered hand and letting himself be tugged closer, his arms rising to bracket Sherlock in against the wall. He kissed him again, swallowing the pain and discomfort that rested like poison on his lover’s lips, plundering Sherlock’s mouth until the bitterness was gone, and he was once more pliant under John’s hands, rutting up against the knee that had found its way between his legs again, arching and writhing and just barely choking back his sounds of need.

“God, you’re stunning,” John breathed, breaking the kiss only to pepper more along Sherlock’s jaw, down his throat. Sherlock reached up, shakily undoing the first few buttons of his shirt to bare more skin for in encouragement of that attention, which John continued lavishing on him willingly. “Do you have any idea what you do to me?

Sherlock grinned weakly, tilting his head back against the wall and raking his fingers down the front of John’s chest, not even noticing the uniform vest and armor that he was touching. “Well, you showed me once. I’d be more than happy to have it demonstrated again, though, by all means.”

John huffed out a laugh, taking the risk of a single, minute nip to the side of his jaw, and Sherlock whined beautifully at the sting of pleasure-pain. “Haven’t the time or the nerve, here, but just you wait,” he muttered, smirking against Sherlock’s skin. “I’ll make you moan my name again, love, rest assured.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to respond--but before he could speak, his pupils blown so wide that his icy eyes were nearly eclipsed by them, the walkie crackled at John’s side.

Both men stilled, reality crashing back onto them and leaving them both cold, even before Murray’s voice came through. “John, you there? Report.”

Slowly peeling his hands off of Sherlock--torture would have hurt less--John picked up the radio. “Yeah, Bill. Something wrong?”

“Just couldn’t see you or Mr. Holmes on the monitor. Making sure all’s well up there.”

Sherlock sagged slightly, then turned his face away, sliding free from John’s weight pinning his and stepping into the hallway. John followed him, watching the younger man seem to almost visibly shake off their moment of intimacy; Sherlock was utterly himself again as he entered the library, selecting a book from the shelf with the purposeful movements of a man selecting a predetermined item, and brought it back out, turning to enter the lounge, instead, and waved the book at one of the cameras. John took his cue dutifully.

“Yeah, sorry. We were discussing which of a few books I might like to try. Mr. Holmes went and got it for me--we’ll stay in sight, sorry for that.”

“No worries, mate,” Bill said cheerfully. “I’d forgotten the hallway hasn’t got a camera. Check in with me later.” The radio cut off with a spark of white noise.

Looking over at John from back at the armchairs, Sherlock held the book up, and John had to admit, it was genuinely impossible to tell, just from looking at him, that the man had been rubbing his hard cock against the doctor’s thigh two minutes ago, close to coming in his pants, panting and moaning into a kiss like an animal in heat.

“As I said--you’ll like this series,” Sherlock remarked, voice somewhat flat. “Adventure, without going too overboard into the violence.”

John nodded, crossing to him, and took the book from his hands, their fingers grazing over the bottom cover. “Thank you."

* * *

Now that he had had the excruciating experience of having John present in the room for a dinner, Sherlock actually found it far more bearable to be alone with Charles for their weekly meals--because anything was better than having his husband’s focus on the both of them together, at the same time. Sherlock had felt exposed, eviscerated, like even a breath could betray him, and it had left his stomach sick and aching as he tried to eat that night.

He had simply thrown it all back up, when he was alone later, but he had refrained from calling for Molly. He did not need John worrying about him more than necessary, and he knew the good doctor would tell his faithful bodyguard whenever he was ill.

Tonight, it was almost pleasant in the dining room, with more lively music than usual playing over the speakers, and Charles wasn’t pressing for as much conversation as usual. Sherlock had managed to choke down half his meal before the older man spoke, ending the almost-peace.

“So what book was it that Dr. Watson settled on today?” he asked amiably, dabbing at his lips before setting his napkin down, and removing his glasses to clean them gently.

Sherlock’s eyes rested briefly on the flashing reflection of the table’s candlelight in the glasses’ lenses, then took another bite of his fish, chewing and swallowing that before he replied. “Just a trilogy about the west that I thought he would enjoy. We both enjoy fast-paced stories, but Dr. Watson prefers them with limited references to warfare, considering his history."

“Quite reasonable,” Charles murmured with a wry smile, sipping at his wine. “He has had quite the adventurous life. And suffered many losses, I’d imagine. I imagine he is substantially more careful with his mind and heart, these days.”

Sherlock frowned, trying not to react too pronouncedly to that cryptic statement and its myriad of potential implications, and forced himself to continue eating. “I suppose so.”

Charles finished his meal first, nudging the plate aside and leaning back to regard his husband thoughtfully. “The weather has been improving--it’s been almost warm out, the last few days.” When Sherlock didn’t respond to that, Charles pressed on. “I thought you might like getting out on the grounds, on days when you and Dr. Watson aren’t going into town. I know your balcony is sufficient for fresh air in the lounge, but walking on the grounds can never go amiss. You could use some more muscle,” he concluded; but the words were said almost fondly, rather than to insult his spouse.

Sherlock did lower his fork this time, looking up at his husband warily. “You wouldn’t mind?”

Charles arched his brows, looking mildly amused. “Dear boy, I’ve never refused you that option. As long as you’re accompanied, you’re free to enjoy the entire estate, of course. This is your home as well, after all,” he added, wearing a knowing smile.

Sherlock considered that, carefully, finishing his own food--it was falling like lead into his stomach, but if he didn’t eat it all, then Charles would push to know just how he was upsetting the younger man with his offer, and Sherlock did not want to give him that satisfaction. 

Eventually he nodded. “Thank you. I--I’ll ask Dr. Watson to join me,” he said hesitantly, throat tightening when his husband smiled back at him.

“Perfect,” Charles said silkily, picking his wine back up. “Just have him notify Sergeant Murray whenever you step out together, so that there’s no concern over you disappearing from the view of the cameras now and then, as there was today. We trust Dr. Watson completely with your safety, of course."

Sherlock felt as if he was missing something very blatant, something tucked between the words of this conversation, and he blinked slowly, staring back at his husband with pure confusion in his eyes. But Charles was merely smiling back at him, as if he was utterly content with the world and with their relationship, as he always was when he was getting his way.

  
Finally, unsure of what else he could do, Sherlock nodded silently. Whatever Charles’ motivation was for granting them more liberties--perhaps they could turn it to their advantage. In a cost-benefit analysis of the risks versus rewards of sneaking off together on his husband’s own property, Sherlock found that he was far too invested in those rewards to dwell on the potential consequences of the risks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love you all. Please comment, even if it's just "don't stop Minx!" It helps. <3
> 
> A/N 5/19: You may note that I've added an official count of 25 chapters. That is 24 chapters, and an epilogue. If any chapter ends up being too short, I may combine them, but that is the current setup of the outline!


	14. Can You Stay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He and Sherlock were having an affair."
> 
> Chapter title from "Find a Way" by SafetySuit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soundtrack:  
> -"Find a Way" by SafetySuit  
> -"Run" by Matt Nathanson  
> -"Devil Devil" by Milck
> 
> .........life, man. I'm sorry, loves.

Sherlock did not mention the newly implemented permission for on-property outdoor excursions for a few days—but eventually, restlessness pushed him to.

When he informed John that Charles had encouraged him to get some more exercise right there on the grounds, and had requested that John accompany him to do so, the older man looked surprised, but didn’t object. The weather was almost pleasant, the sun out enough to hazard simple long sleeves, without coats, and as they emerged from the house and began to follow the stone foot path that roamed around the side of the house, John couldn’t looking over at his companion, and noting to himself how lovely Sherlock looked in the weak sunlight.

Sherlock’s mouth quirked into a smile as he paced along beside his bodyguard, hands folded at his back and shoulders straight and proud. “What are you thinking about, John?”

The doctor snorted, looking ahead again and waiting until they passed one of the patrols, nodding politely at his comrades, before he replied. “I’m thinking about how nice your hair looks in this light. And about the way your lips taste.”

As he had hoped, Sherlock blushed at the added remark, and he gave John a sidelong look that was both longing, and fondly reprimanding. “Still a pleasant thought, I hope.”

John allowed himself the risk of bumping his shoulder lightly into Sherlock’s as they rounded the back of the house, falling into its shadow and out of the sight lines of any patrols that were out on the grounds, and he nodded, smirking. “You know damn well that it is. I…can’t wait for my next opportunity to experience it again.”

Sherlock inhaled softly, and there was a hitch in his gait that John could easily imagine the cause of, which made his smile widen knowingly—but he didn’t comment just yet.

As they walked along the length of the back of the house, approaching the side nearest to the driveway where it wound toward the front gate, Sherlock watched another of the patrol units doing their drills near the veranda where the pool was located; then he looked over at John curiously, a small smile curling up the corners of his bow lips. “Are there men still in the barracks during the day?”

The way that he asked it gave John a distinctive flashback to his own oh-so-innocent inquiry as to whether or not there were blind spots in the security coverage of Sherlock’s wing of the house, and his interest was piqued at once; raising an eyebrow, he shook his head in response to the question. “Not necessarily. If they’re off-duty, they’re just as likely to be hanging out in the lounge inside, or around the grounds with the men who are on. Or they’d be in-town, though I doubt any of my men would be drinking this early in the day.”

Sherlock snorted at that, but continued with his line of thought without remarking on the likelihood of alcoholism among John’s men. “So we wouldn’t be...disturbing anyone, if you were to show me where you live? Where you sleep?”

John smirked, pleased that he had been right about where this discussion was heading. “Not at all--I live in a separate building with only Murray on the other side of my unit...so we know he’s currently working and won’t be bothered by us. Come on, I’ll show you.”

Surprisingly, John felt no fear as he led the way to the security housing bunkers; even if someone  _ was _ inside, dissuading them from doing anything intimate, it would hardly seem strange that he would decide to give Sherlock a tour of this nature--after all, they had clearly become close, and John spent extensive time in Sherlock’s personal rooms. No one would consider it suspect for John to return the familiarity.

Flashing his keycard to admit them to the barracks, John smiled as he led the way into his side of the duplex, speaking to Sherlock over his shoulder. “It’s not impressive, but it’s more than enough for me--”

He had barely opened the door that led from the main area to his bedroom when Sherlock pounced, driving John through the door and kicking it shut behind himself as he pushed the doctor backwards towards his bed, his agile hands already working John’s vest and shirt open, pale lips insistent against his.

John grunted in surprise at the abrupt shift in tempo, but did absolutely nothing to slow Sherlock down, laughing softly as he quickly shed his gear and shirt, until he was left only in his trousers and undershirt.

Sherlock all but shoved him until he was sitting on the edge of the bed, and John raised his eyebrows as the younger man stopped only to strip himself--far more efficiently and less provocatively than he had previously--before Sherlock was climbing up to straddle him, and John groaned at the weight and heat of his body.

“Impatient, are you?” he growled, and Sherlock nipped his lip punishingly, making the older man bark a laugh. “Alright, you, come on--”

John rolled them over smoothly, pinning Sherlock onto his back, and he had his hands inside the younger man’s black silk shorts when John stopped dead, shooting Sherlock a stunned look. “Did you seriously--”

“In the shower, this morning,” Sherlock confirmed, grinning smugly at having so successfully surprised his lover. “Come  _ on _ , we haven’t got all day, John--”

The older man couldn’t stop his ridiculous grin, shaking his head in amazement even as he pushed two fingers effortlessly into Sherlock’s lube-slick body, savoring the way the dark-haired man arched up in response, biting his lip brutally to keep from shouting out and giving them away.

“Saucy tosser,” John taunted him. “Always so mouthy. Let’s see if I can’t keep you quiet, hm?” 

Sherlock merely laughed, high and breathless, and rocked his hips downward, fucking himself on John’s fingers. His movements were rough, forceful--enough so that John might have worried for his physical safety, but the noises that Sherlock was making were anything but pained or uncomfortable. He sounded blissful, as if it was enough even to have only John’s fingers inside of him.

It pushed a thought to the forefront of John’s mind--a dark thought, one that he didn’t want to confront, now or ever. He knew that Sherlock had existed before he had come here; that he’d had had a life outside of Appledore--Sherlock himself had told John about his ex-lover, someone he had considered a possible life-mate before Jim had left the bloody country--and now, Sherlock was married. No matter the state of that marriage, surely even once, they had to have consummated the union.

And even if he hated his husband--which John desperately had to hope that Sherlock truly did, and that he wasn’t just yanking the doctor along on a short, doomed chain--Sherlock did still have one. And John had no right to feel anger or jealousy over the fact that that husband had a claim to Sherlock as well--to his mind and his body, and to all of the things that John most cherished in him.

He had had a claim since long before John did, and he would still possess that claim, for as long as they were married. Actions spoke louder than words, and Sherlock still wore the ring, no matter his emotions toward it, or the man it represented.

John shoved those grim thoughts into a small locked box in the back of his head, refusing to let them pull away from the present--from the heat and solidity of Sherlock’s body, and from the sounds that the younger man was making for him as he added a third finger, sliding the digits slowly and wetly into his lover’s already slick, loosened body.

“I need you,” John whispered, because that was the only truth that mattered for him, right here and now. The rest of the world could burn--and take Charles Magnussen down with it--so long as John had this.

Sherlock opened his eyes, blinking up at the older man, and he nodded, the black of his pupils nearly eclipsing his icy irises. “So do I. Please, John...”

He didn’t need to be asked twice. John withdrew his fingers, staring in hungry awe at the way that Sherlock’s hole flexed in the absence of anything holding it open. 

“John.” The whisper of his name made him raise his eyes, and he found Sherlock watching him, a smile creasing the corners of those surreal, ice-colored eyes. “John, please, fuck me? I need...I need to you feel again.”

Nodding, John shifted forward, kneeling closer to Sherlock and nudging his thighs wider apart. Part of his brain reminded him, sharply, of where they were located, and John inhaled raggedly. “You must stay quiet, love,” he murmured, and Sherlock nodded, his smile turning devious. “Don’t go getting us caught, now.”

Considering the circumstances, John really should have insisted on a condom--but it didn’t occur to him until he was already pushing inside of Sherlock, and from that moment on, nothing could have incentivized him to stop or draw back.

John bit down on his bottom lip, hard, nearly drawing blood as he struggled to prevent any sound from escaping him as he slid forward, finally bottoming out inside of the younger man. “Oh, fuck, Sherlock...”

The dark-haired man slid his hands beneath his own thighs, long pale fingers wrapping around the thin limbs and holding himself open wider to accommodate John’s thrusts. “Harder, John,” he whispered, and when John met his eyes, Sherlock’s were nearly black with arousal, his pupils almost entirely eclipsed. “I can take it. Please.”

A dozen reasons drifted through John’s mind why he should contest that; why, as a doctor and as just a human with eyes, he knew that Sherlock was more fragile than he was willing to admit to. He barely ate, his muscle tone was minimal, and his medical history was either concealed, or it gave away things that he wouldn’t willingly admit to.

But when he looked into Sherlock’s face, and saw the way that the younger man licked his pale lips, his entire body trembling with effort as he kept holding on behind his knees, wanting more...John didn’t have the strength to refuse him.

Bracing one hand against the bed beneath Sherlock’s hips, John slid the other up to the back of Sherlock’s neck, tangling his fingers into the unruly black locks of hair and bending forward to kiss him, deep and roughly, as he began to hammer his hips forward harder. It was noisier--dangerously so, the soft, damp slap of skin on skin mounting unmistakably until John was sure that anyone passing by the bunker would know what was happening within--but he didn’t care.

Not when Sherlock was writhing as he was, his back arching gracefully, head flinging back and teeth pressing hard into the soft, flushed skin of his pale bottom lip in order to silence himself as he held onto his thighs and took the pounding as if he needed it to survive. Not when the sounds that did break past the barrier of his bitten-pink mouth sounded undeniably like John’s own name, as well as whimpered pleas for  _ more _ ,  _ deeper _ , and  _ harder _ \--all of which John was more than happy to grant him.

As Sherlock began to become too noisy, clearly catapulting toward his climax, John leaned forward again, swallowing the soft moans and cries right out of his lover’s mouth by kissing him almost savagely. Sherlock stiffened, a last, broken shout muffled against John’s teeth as the younger man came explosively, pulsing hot and wet between their bodies and making John growl out an incoherent curse before he was coming as well, shuddering as he thrust in as deeply as possible, trying to hold onto this moment, trying to imprint himself into the very fibers of Sherlock’s being, permanent and unerasable.

When they did eventually come down from the shared high of their orgasms, Sherlock blinked, seeming to come back to himself a little as he gazed up at John, and he smiled faintly, reaching up to brush away some of the perspiration clinging to the doctor’s face.

“Thank you,” he whispered, and John sighed, feeling himself deflate, both in surrender and remorse.

His head tipped forward, forehead resting against Sherlock’s sharply defined collar bone, and John could only nod, wordless in his understanding and agreement of the sentiment that Sherlock was attempting to voice.

* * *

“Harry...Harry cheated. Again.”

John’s stomach dropped into his toes, and he pinched his fingers around the bridge of his nose, unsure of what to say. Clara had texted and asked him to come over on his next day off, and so here he was, two days after he and Sherlock had stolen their hour away in his bunker.

“Cee...how do you know?”

His sister-in-law looked up at him from where she was sitting on her sofa, eyes red-rimmed and skin pale and drawn. She wasn’t wearing her makeup today, and she looked infinitely more tired than John thought he had ever seen her.

“She accidentally phoned me,” she told him, rubbing her hand over her face and drawing her knees up to her chest, feet propped on the edge of the sofa cushion. “They...she hooked up with someone at the bar. I don’t know if they were still there, or back at...at the other woman’s place, but Harry dialed me, and I...I heard what they were doing.”

Looking up again, Clara inhaled raggedly, and held out one hand, which John readily accepted. He sank down beside her, letting the petite brunette place her head on his shoulder as she seemed to deflate slightly against him. 

“Where is she right now?” he asked softly, and Clara sighed out her breath, gesturing vaguely. 

“I...I asked if she wanted to stay here, and I’d go to my mother’s, but she said she’d get a motel room.” Clara made a noise, something between a whimper and another sigh. “Oh, John. I know...I know that she was drunk, and she admitted that, she said she never meant this one to happen.” She let out a tiny, broken laugh. “I don’t know if I want to forgive her this one, or just...run away. If it had never happened before, maybe, but...she’s done it intentionally, you know? I know this time wasn’t so, but it doesn’t hurt any less.”

“Of course not,” John said gently, not wanting Clara to blame herself at all. “Drunk or not, Harry should have had better control over herself. She knows how careless she can be when she drinks, and she knows that...she’s susceptible.”

He paused, unsure of how to continue. Truthfully, he wanted to say that Harry knew that she could get away with this--that she was taking advantage of Clara’s sweet, constantly forgiving nature. But that wasn’t fair at all, not when Clara was feeling so raw about the betrayal. It implied that her own good nature was to blame for her wife’s repeated infidelities.

Despite the significant differences in their two situations, John’s mind suddenly darkened as he thought back to two days ago. And to his first time with Sherlock, out at Baker Street. And every other moment thus far, since the affair had begun--and that was exactly what it was, there was no sugar-coating it.

He and Sherlock were having an affair. Sherlock was cheating on his husband with the soldier.

If Sherlock truly was as unhappy as he acted like, and claimed to be, then why didn’t he just divorce Magnussen? His family was clearly progressive enough to accept his marriage to a man; surely they wouldn’t be too offended by his ending the union. If he really wanted a future with John...then why not pursue it?

Instead, he always just said that he didn’t want to discuss it. And despite John’s convictions that there was something more sinister going on behind the walls of Appledore...perhaps Sherlock really was just a manipulative, bored househusband, looking for something new and diverting. 

The thought terrified John, but he had to admit--if something didn’t change soon, then he was only headed toward getting himself more hurt by falling any harder for Sherlock, without any guarantee that the younger man felt the same for him, or wanted more than just a fun, distracting fling with the doctor.

Locking those thoughts away once more, John wrapped his arm around Clara’s shoulders, his words drying up. She didn’t speak, either; she simply curled closer to him, her eyes closing, as if they could both block out the world around them, and all of its frustrations and complications.

* * *

Upon his return to work the next morning, once again, John found himself circumvented from heading upstairs, with only the cryptic notice that Sherlock was not yet available for companionship. After the events of the last few days, John was immediately on edge, though Murray gave him no indication that anything was amiss beyond the simple fact that Sherlock was not ready to receive him.

John waited in the break room until Murray beeped his radio to indicate that he had been summoned, and then he headed upstairs, struggling to appear calm and collected, and in no way agitated or concerned by the brief delay.

When he entered the lounge, John was relieved to see that it was Molly, and not Charles Magnussen, who was sitting beside Sherlock on the loveseat, although she looked no happier than usual when she had to call on Sherlock in his rooms; her brow was furrowed, her attention wholly focused on the task of taking Sherlock’s blood pressure.

There were dark circles beneath Sherlock’s eyes, and when John approached them around the fountain, it was clear that Sherlock had to muster energy even to smile at him, or to speak. “Good morning, John.”

John frowned in response, but he didn’t waste his breath trying to ask about it. Sherlock wouldn’t answer directly in Molly’s presence, and Molly wouldn’t answer him at all in front of her patient.

“I--just came to check in, I have to go notify Murray that I’m up here now,” he murmured, and Molly nodded, barely glancing over from her chart as she noted Sherlock’s numbers. It was Sherlock who frowned, looking ready to protest--he knew full-well that John wouldn’t have come up here without Bill knowing that he was checked in for the day--but he didn’t call John out on the lie, and John retreated before Molly could finish and leave the lounge.

Downstairs, John tucked himself out of sight, and he waited until he saw Molly descend the staircase and head back into her own wing. Once he was sure that she was in there, John made his way to her lab, waiting to be certain that she was alone before he entered.

She was visibly surprised to see him, but remained polite as ever. “John, hello again. Would you--care for tea?” she asked, gesturing to where she a had a kettle prepping in the kitchenette corner of her workspace.

John shook his head, closing the door behind himself and moving forward, keeping his voice lowered. “Why did Sherlock need a check-up?” he asked, and his stomach sank at once when Molly’s lips thinned at the inquiry.

“He didn’t sleep last night, nor the one before, I’d wager,” she replied, just as softly. “And he had some bruising on his hips and back that worried me--with his low weight, even minor damage can mess with his system in serious ways. He swears he’s fine, but I don’t like it. He’s teetering, he really is.”

John’s breathing quickened, uncertainly and a touch of deep, dark anger bubbling inside his chest. “What caused the bruising?” In the back of his mind, a tiny voice murmured, fearful that it had been his fault--he’d known, when they were in his own bed, that he should be rough with the younger man. But he’d been careful, John was sure of it--he knew his own strength, he hadn’t handled Sherlock  _ that _ harshly.

Molly simply shook her head, her brown eyes wide. “I couldn’t say, John, honestly. Without his confirmation, my thoughts are speculation, and patient-doctor privilege would prevent me stating them to you, anyway. I’m sorry. I promise, though, he’s alright. Teetering, yes, but unfortunately, I believe he’s mastered the art of keeping himself right on the brink.”

John sighed heavily, letting his fears dissipate; even if the bruises were his own fault, no one had confronted him, and days had passed. And if they weren’t his doing--Sherlock was not going to tell him, anyway. “It’s utter bollocks.”

“It really is,” Molly agreed quietly, her eyes sad, but steeled. The conversation was over. “I’m sorry--I’ve got to type up his results for today, John. I’ll see you later, alright?”

He could only nod, unable to push the issue further. To force Molly into a corner--making her divulge information that she was legally bound to protect, or to try and voice his own fears to her--would risk Molly’s position, and John knew that he could not let Sherlock lose even one of the few people who truly cared for him within these walls.

Returning upstairs, John paused at the doorway, watching Sherlock where the younger man was leaning up against the glass, gazing down across the grounds sprawling before him.

He looked almost dreamlike, for a moment, so thin and tall and lovely as he stood there, bathed in the watery sunlight and simply still, no expression on his face and nothing given away by his posture. No lines around his mouth and no shadows in his eyes, nothing to suggest that he was anything but content in his life and his place there, waiting by the window for John to return.

And yet, there was something so haunted about his image, as if he was already a ghost even in his own life, and it tore at the older man’s heart--filling him with a nameless, indescribable dread.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you tell I like angst? A lot?


	15. Am I The Reason

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "And to see him look so utterly debauched, so completely undone by John’s touches, alone--well, that was a sensation that the doctor could quickly become addicted to."
> 
> Chapter title from "Always" by Saliva.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soundtrack:  
> -"Always" by Saliva  
> -"Paradise" by Sharif  
> -"Hero" by Enrique Iglesias
> 
> LOL so, yeah, suddenly instant update. This was actually supposed to be the end of chapter 14, but got separated due to me always preferring sex scenes to be individual, and now I'm wishing it had still been part of 14. Ah, well. Have another burst of smut and angst. :D
> 
> (Chapter warning for sex...And signs/hint of physical abuse).

They were in town the following weekend, once more unaccompanied by any additional security detail--and like clockwork, they made their way back to Baker Street following supper.

It was only when John had Sherlock sprawled out across the bed, bare and writhing beneath the doctor’s touches as the pristine silk sheets rumpled underneath him, that John caught a glimpse of the bruises that Molly had mentioned. They were fresh, more recent than the afternoon rendezvous in John’s bunker back at Appledore, and far too dark to have been caused then.

These were not marks that had come from John’s hands.

They were unmistakable; it was impossible to miss the shape of hands pressed into the mottled blue-black bruises, pressed into the younger man’s skin in such a way that it could leave no doubt. Sherlock had been held roughly, likely on the edge of a hard surface judging by the thin, red bruised line running straight across the backs of his thighs. And John had no doubt as to what would have been being done to him in that position.

He didn’t even need to turn Sherlock over to check if there were similar abuse patterns on the inside of his thighs, where another man would have been standing.

John paused, nausea rising in his belly, and he ran his fingertips slowly over the imprints of Charles Magnussen’s fingers in his husband’s delicate flesh, then over the line where the man’s desk--or whatever it had been--had dug into the back of Sherlock’s legs.

The younger man clearly felt the sensitive spots being studied, because he stilled abruptly, and looked back at John warily over his shoulder, icy eyes wide. His pupils were still dilated--less with arousal and more from fear, now.

John’s voice was low and tight, striving to remain steady. “Did you want to be hurt this way?

He saw the instantaneous flash of pain in Sherlock’s eyes--not memory, not from the recollection of how the bruises had happened, but  _ immediate _ hurt; he was stung that John had asked about them, and guilt flared through the older man. “Look--forget that I--”

“No,” Sherlock said sharply, twisting around to face John and moving up on his knees, his gaze boring into John’s intently. The fear had faded, replaced by a focus so intense that John almost couldn’t breathe in the face of it. “No, I won’t forget, and no, I didn’t want it. I never want it, John, for God’s sake. How could you think that? But if I refused him--”

John stopped his mouth with a kiss, unable to bear hearing what the man he worked for did, whenever he liked, to the one who held John’s heart. He couldn’t say the latter truth out loud--but it was true, of course it was, and he could not bear to listen to Sherlock list the abuses that John was powerless to protect him from.  “I know, it’s alright,” he breathed out into his lover’s mouth, guilt-ridden and miserable. “I’m not--I wasn’t angry, if that’s what you thought, I’m sorry--I just...I hate knowing I can’t do anything, and you won’t even  _ tell _ me--”

“John.” Sherlock’s voice was whisper-soft, filled with pleading, too sweet for the doctor to ignore, or press him harder. “No more, please, just touch me. I want it to be your fingers--please? I want  _ you _ to be the one touching me, now.”

John had the single, piercing thought that this was not the way to go; that they needed to communicate more clearly, better, and that he needed to understand what was happening to Sherlock. He could not continue--to be Sherlock’s protector  _ and  _ his lover--and not know the full extent of the predicament that the other man was living in.

But in the same moment, he took in the agony filling the younger man’s face, eyes desperate and begging for it not to matter, not keep them apart; and John knew that almost as much as he specifically craved John’s touch, Sherlock just wanted it to be  _ someone else _ . Someone better than who he belonged to.

He could only nod, with that realization. Sherlock relaxed at once, leaning in to kiss him fiercely. John returned it for a moment; then he grabbed Sherlock and spun him around, pushing him forward roughly, savoring the pleased grunt that Sherlock let out at being handled so firmly but painlessly.

John moved him up onto his knees, and he folded himself over the length of Sherlock’s back, wincing as he felt the younger man’s spine through the thin protection of his nearly translucent skin. But if his weight distressed Sherlock at all, he didn’t acknowledge it; he moaned hoarsely, hips bucking, rubbing his bare arse back against the older man’s cock and making John’s breath hitch in his throat.

“Come  _ on _ , John--”

The violent longing, the hunger in that voice--John had never heard anything so intoxicating. He growled softly, grinning as the sound made Sherlock shudder again violently, and John scrambled for the lubricant, pouring some onto his fingers and all but shoving one digit inside of Sherlock. The dark-haired man gasped out a surprised noise, head flying up, and in the mirror over the dusty dresser in the far corner of the bedroom, John caught a glimpse of his expression.

The ecstasy printed on Sherlock’s face was a sight that would not leave his mind for as long as he lived, John was sure of that.

He chuckled, tilting his head to catch Sherlock’s earlobe between his teeth, and bit down as he twisted his finger, managing to work the second in alongside it and still watch Sherlock’s reflection as he took it. “Fuck, Sherlock, look at yourself...so bloody gorgeous...”

Sherlock blinked, only then seeming to register the presence of the mirror, and his cheeks turned a lovely, dusky pink that brought life into his wan features in a way that John didn’t think he had ever seen before, even during sex. He laughed outright at the sight, thrilled that he could provoke such a sweet look--even knowing, as he did, that Sherlock did not consider himself a highly sexual being, his beauty was enough to make it easy to forget that.

And to see him look so utterly debauched, so completely undone by  _ John’s _ touches, alone--well, that was a sensation that the doctor could quickly become addicted to.

By the time he had three fingers working roughly in and out of Sherlock’s entrance, stretching the muscle and massaging his prostate gently, seeking to give him as much pleasure as John could possibly wring out of him, Sherlock was all but shouting his pleasure. He had twisted to sink his teeth into his own bicep, struggling to remain quiet for their safety.

John wished that he could grasp his lover’s hair and yank his face up, to make him meet his own gaze as he was fucked brutally in his own bed, far away from the cold, caged life that he loathed, and order him to make as much goddamn noise as he wished to.

He did act on the desire to touch the long, frothing locks of dark hair, at least, and John laughed again softly when Sherlock moaned raggedly into his skin. “You’re going to leave marks,” he warned Sherlock, but there was no reprimand in his tone. “How will you explain that, hm?”

Sherlock’s shoulders rolled, a lazy effort at a shrug; but his eyes flicked to John’s in the glass, playfully accusing, and John’s grin widened.

He tightened his fingers, watching the pleasure-pain flare beautifully in those glasz eyes, and the doctor shook his head, chuckling. “I’m not taking any blame, you tart, you’re the one biting yourself to pieces,” he taunted, then rocked his hips harder, reveling in the way that Sherlock responded; he unclamped his teeth, settling for leaving his lips pressed against his own flesh as he let out a muffled howl, eyes fluttering closed again as John fucked into him mercilessly.

“Look up,” he ordered, silk-soft, and when Sherlock did, John knew from the younger man’s expression that he himself must look feral. “Watch, Sherlock. You want it to be me touching you, taking you?  _ Watch _ . See it when I come inside of you.”

He thrilled in the way that Sherlock’s pupils expanded visibly, as if his words had thrown a bloody switch, and John dropped his hands. He didn’t look down, didn’t bother checking whether or not his fingers were slotting into place directly where Magnussen’s hands had gripped his husband previously.

It didn’t matter either way; those marks were nothing, superficial, and they would fade from sight and from memory. John’s marks, though, were something else entirely, something deeper--and Sherlock hardly needed bruises or nail imprints to remember these stolen moments.

Once he knew he had a secure hold on Sherlock’s lean, lanky body, John surrendered to the heat coursing through his own veins, letting his lust and love for the man underneath him fuel his movements. He hammered forward with renewed vigor, growling out curses between panted breaths, and when he heard Sherlock begin gasping out his name in the most unmistakable way possible--fuck, if he forgot everything else in the world, John would never, ever forget the way that Sherlock Holmes sounded when he climaxed, this beautiful body squeezing down around his and practically milking the release out of him--the doctor felt himself fly over the edge as well, coming hot and wet, deep inside of his lover’s body.

Sherlock collapsed, laughing breathlessly, and John went down with him, rolling his hips to keep up the stimulation as he more or less ground Sherlock down into his own mess in the bedding, grinning as Sherlock whined in playful protest, until John finally stopped moving, as well.

“You’re mine, aren’t you?” John asked suddenly, thoughtlessly, unsure if he was even audible.

Sherlock went still, his laughter fading mid-peal, and when he looked over his shoulder, John saw the way his pupils retracted, the lust fading from his features to be replaced by...certainty.

“Yes,” Sherlock whispered back, his tone neutral. There was neither joy nor regret in his eyes; he simply gazed back at John, quiet and sure, and John stared back at him, mouth too dry to respond.

*** * ***

When they made the drive back home later that evening, sated and silent in the aftermath of what had been said, felt, and done, John looked over at him, still trying to find words to thank Sherlock--or perhaps to apologize.

But Sherlock was merely leaning his forehead against the glass of the limousine window, a distant, more or less contented look on his face. There was none of the fear or unhappiness from before, when John had discovered the bruises.

So John bit his tongue, left wondering if he was only doing more harm than good for the man beside him by continuing to be in his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On a random note...I have a very basic Photoshop sketch I did of Sherlock's lounge, as a visual reference, but can't figure out where to upload it in order to link it in a chapter. I do wanna share it with y'all though. -_-


	16. Cause We Will Never Learn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "John suddenly felt starved for more information."
> 
> Chapter title from "My Obsession" by Cinema Bizarre.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soundtrack:  
> -"That’s What You Get" (Paramore)  
> -"My Obsession" (Cinema Bizarre)
> 
> ....gUYS I'M SO SORRY. Basically, I had to violently buckle down and study--and I PASSED MY COMPREHENSIVE EXAM. I'm getting my Masters!
> 
> And, to keep you all from rolling your eyes and abandoning me--this is the second-to-last content filler chapter. The pace is about to pick back up!

Before he made his way to the Yard on his next day off, John took an impulsive detour and went by Baker Street first. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for by coming alone--he didn’t even have a key without Sherlock. But he banged the brass knocker anyway, and when Mrs. Hudson opened the door, it only took a second for her face to brighten in recognition and welcome.

“Dr. Watson! What a surprise, I didn’t think you worked today.”

“I don’t,” he admitted, smiling a bit sheepishly. “I was headed to the Yard, actually. But I thought I’d stop in and say hello--if you aren’t busy?”

“Not at all,” she said warmly, waving her hand to invite him in. “Please, come have tea with me. I’d love to have you.”

It should have felt strange, John supposed, sitting in the small kitchen of his client’s--his boyfriend’s--housekeeper, sharing her tea and light sandwiches and exchanging the typical, mundane small talk. But instead it felt natural, like seeing an old friend, and John found himself almost entirely at home in the sunny little flat as they talked and laughed about the weather and current politics and who had won the recent football match.

“I’m glad you thought to come by,” she remarked, pouring them both more tea. “I admit, it often feels a touch too quiet around here these days...used to be, there would be violin music at all bloody hours of the day and night. Or the telly on, with Sherlock ranting at it for anything that displeased him, which of course was every little thing.” Mrs. Hudson chuckled fondly. “I’d threaten to evict him for noise complaints, but he knew I’d never bear to. He’s too much like a son to me.”

John smiled faintly, liking to hear her talk about Sherlock from another time in his life. “He loves this place, I know that. He said it was the only place that ever felt like home.”

“I suppose it would,” she said, sniffing slightly. “His brother’s a good man, to be sure, and from what Sherlock’s told me, his parents were dear souls--but I doubt Sherlock ever felt at ease as a child. No, he always needed his own space, to be able to work his odd experiments and be awake at odd hours and just to live how he liked. As long as he’s minding his health reasonably enough, I think solitude suits him.”

It felt risky, talking so openly about Sherlock with someone who knew him so intimately, but John suddenly felt starved for more information. And Mrs. Hudson had known his lover for far longer than any of the tight-lipped staff at Appledore.

“I’d have thought, given that he hired you on to look after Sherlock, that perhaps Mr. Magnussen would have given you rooms at the house,” John said cautiously, sipping his tea slowly. His fingers were trembling slightly. “Everyone else living on the property as we do--it would seem logical.”

She sniffed again, a dark look flickering through her eyes. “It would, and he did offer--but I could never. First of all, I’d have trouble managing this place--and this is my home, has been since I returned to England after my late husband died. I love this house. And to be honest...I think it would have distressed Sherlock, not having this familiar space to return to. It’s a commute, to be sure, but I would rather he and I have Baker Street, than be close on hand by living in that mausoleum.” Mrs. Hudson put a hand over her mouth, looking startled at herself. “I’m sorry, John, that was rather rude of me.”

“No, it is...it is a bit of a tomb,” he agreed quietly. “So quiet, except for when Sherlock’s playing his music.”

Her eyes softened. “Yes. I am glad every time I hear him playing. It feels less like his soul has disappeared inside those barren walls.”

John raised his eyebrows slightly, growing bolder. “So you truly think...that he’s unhappy there, too? You think he’s miserable?”

Mrs. Hudson glanced at her hands, and sighed softly. “I oughtn’t be speaking about it, John, it isn’t my place. I don’t know how Sherlock feels. Just that...well, when he came home and told me that he had accepted that man’s proposal, and that he would be marrying and moving into Mr. Magnussen’s estate, I wasn’t sure if he was high, or simply numb. He said it so matter-of-factly, so indifferently. I pressed him, wanting to know that he was sure, but he brushed it off until I stopped.”

She wrapped her hands around her cup of tea to warm them. “All he ever told me was that it was a fine match, and he was pleased by the prospects. I asked his brother at the wedding--God knows, Mr. Magnussen didn’t know why his groom’s former landlady was invited--but the older Mr. Holmes just told me that it was the best choice for Sherlock.” She sighed, leaning her forehead on one hand. “And then the man himself offered me a job to remain with Sherlock, and I took it at once. It’s improved my finances, and it means I still see my boy.”

John remained quiet for a long moment, watching her work through her thoughts, not wishing to push harder in case he upset her. More than just respect for the woman herself, John did not want her to feel the need to mention this conversation to Sherlock when she went back to Appledore again.

“Sherlock--told me that he’d been in a serious relationship, before meeting Mr. Magnussen,” he ventured, and Mrs. Hudson chuckled, seemingly coming back to the present moment and shrugging at the statement.

“He had been. I can’t tell you for sure what I thought of Jim--he was an odd one. A bit...slippery, that’s the only word for it. He could charm you into thinking or doing anything, and yet...at moments, there was only ice in his eyes. But they were well-matched,” Mrs. Hudson added, shaking her head ruefully. “I’d listen to them debate--banter, really. They never could outdo one another, and they did so love to spar verbally. Two of the most brilliant minds I’ve ever seen, bouncing off of each other so effortlessly.”

She shrugged again, looking back up at John. “I won’t lie, I wasn’t entirely sad when he moved on. I think his job took him back to Ireland, where he’d come from. Sherlock was sad for a bit, but he recovered. And then...he met Mr. Magnussen.”

John sipped his tea again for something to do with his hands, not caring that it had gotten colder. “Sherlock was different back then, I take it. His personality.”

Mrs. Hudson nodded slowly, absently running a fingertip along the edge of her own cup. “He was...stronger, more reserved. Didn’t open up much at all, though he was warm enough with me. A lot more impatient and brisk,” she added, smiling fondly. “Always moving, always had somewhere to be. Never sitting still.”

John’s mind drifted over the endless afternoons he spent in Sherlock’s airy lounge at Appledore, watching the man remain utterly still but for occasionally turning the page of his book, or sketching, or working on sheet music. It sounded like an entirely different man.

“You mentioned his health,” John recalled, refocusing on her. “Was he better, before he married? I know Mol--Dr. Hooper is kept on her toes with him, always checking on him. I’m amazed she hasn’t resorted to feeding him intravenously.”

“She’s had to with fluids,” Mrs. Hudson said frankly. “He hates to stop whatever his mind is doing for things like sleeping and eating, and the notion of remaining hydrated--well, Sherlock’s just inattentive to his body’s needs. I used to slip up here every morning to lay out tea and biscuits as soon as I heard him stirring about--I knew he’d eat it if he hadn’t had to pause to think about preparing it. And he’d come join me for meals, now and then. But...yes, he was better then. He ate when I’d tell him too, even drink water for me.” She sighed softly. “Now he just gazes back at me quietly when I bring him food, and gets irritable when I stay to make certain that he eats it all.”

John was struggling to conceal his horror. It would make sense when Sherlock had had his freedom; the way that Mrs. Hudson was describing his past self, John could perfectly imagine the man whipping from one thing to another, barely stopping to rest, only caring for his body when those who loved him assisted him. But the way he was now...what else was there besides caring for his health, both mental and physical? What the hell was going on inside of his head?

“This is all rather grim talk,” Mrs. Hudson said gently, reaching out to pat his hand. “Don’t you worry your mind on your day off, Dr. Watson. Sherlock is well enough. He has us looking out for him, and Dr. Hooper. He’ll be alright.”

John wasn’t sure which of them she was trying to convince more. She sounded calm enough, but John was sure that he could see the same shadow behind her eyes that he knew was in his own. The unspoken fear, the nameless worry, knowing that Sherlock was not alright--but they didn’t know how or why, and they were powerless to assist him unless he asked them to.

* * *

“Dr. Watson!” Sally looked delighted to see him, considering that John didn’t think that they were particularly fantastic friends,but he supposed that was better than having one’s regular bartender despise you. “Been too long, mate, we were worried that they chewed you up and spit you out!”

“No, I’m quite fine,” he replied, smiling faintly as he sank onto one of the lovely old barstools. “Work’s going well, same old.”

Her eyebrows rose, the usual twinkle of mischief in her dark eyes, and John had only a second to inhale and brace himself. “So it’s still going okay, looking after the freak?” she asked, laughing. “Or did you wisen up and get a better position? God, I can’t imagine it. You are a tough son of a bitch.”

John forced a smile, hoping it looked at least somewhat real. “I’m definitely still enjoying my job, and still sane.”

“Ah, I know. I’m just teasing,” she assured him, leaning on the bar and managing to once more flash far more cleavage than was really necessary. “You’re allowed to be honest here, Johnny.”

“I promise, I’m telling the absolute truth,” he replied, managing to sound amused and not strained. “I really do like what I’m doing.”

Anderson appeared, restocking glasses, and Sally grinned over at him as he nodded a greeting at John. “Only a doctor who’s been in bloody war would find working with Sherlock Holmes to be anything short of discomforting, if not downright horrible, eh, Phil?”

Belatedly, John realized that this was an opportunity--he could ask what the two of them had meant on his first visit to the Yard, when they had mentioned something that Sherlock had done that should have led to his not being free to roam his own house. But even as he opened his mouth to do so, Greg entered from the back as well, and John deflated as he spotted them and rolled his eyes.

“Go on, shoo,” he said, waving Sally and Anderson off with a wry smile. “I can take care of Dr. Watson, you tend to the other customers.”

John watched them bounce away, sighing inwardly. Unlike Molly or Mrs. Hudson, they might actually be willing--eager even--to give him the information that he really needed, with no concerns of Sherlock finding out that John was inquiring.

“How’s it, John?” Greg asked warmly, pouring him a fresh, foaming pint. “Work still going well?”

They exchanged mindless small talk for a bit, all the same topics John had covered with Mrs. Hudson, and inside his mind John cringed. Was this all that anyone else wanted, to just keep on cycling through the days, not looking beneath the surface in case they saw something that they didn’t want to know?

Aiming to deepen the conversation, John smiled faintly, swirling his second glass. “So, how did you and Mycroft Holmes end up a couple? Seems an...unlikely pairing--no offense meant,” he tacked on hastily.

The older man merely chuckled, nodding in amused agreement. “No, I know that’s so. People are always shocked when they realize we aren’t just colleagues.” Greg shrugged, his smile softening as he thought about his partner. “I met him while I was still Detective Inspector. Had a case that involved his office, and we remained in contact after it wrapped up. Once I retired...well, we started spending time together casually. Things...evolved on their own.”

John hesitated, but it felt as if Greg was in a relatively open mood. And today seemed to be a day for pushing boundaries. “Do you know...what Mycroft thinks about his brother’s marriage?” he asked, keeping his tone cautiously light. “I know he encouraged it, but...”

Greg raised his eyebrows, and it occurred to John too late that unlike everyone else in his life who also knew Sherlock, this man was former police. He wouldn’t be so easy for John to read, even with his past military experience.

Then Greg shrugged, seemingly not offended by John seeking information from him. “The Holmes brothers...they’re one of those odd sets of siblings. Close, sure enough, but rivals, same as most brothers. But I will tell you one thing--Mike would do anything in the world,  _ anything _ , come hell or water, to protect his family. He’s been doing so since long before he was old enough for such a responsibility.

It didn’t take military attention to sense the mild edge of defensiveness in Greg’s tone over Mycroft, and John smiled faintly, toasting with his beer. “I can definitely see that. Mycroft is very clearly a good man,” he assured Greg, who relaxed a little, returning his smile and looking relieved.

* * *

The next morning found John lost in thought as he sat in the lounge.

Sherlock looked over at him over his music composition book, face serene but eyes shadowed as he examined the older man’s expression curiously. “John? Is something bothering you?”

John looked over at him in return, and pasted on the same smile he had given Sally the night before. “No. No, I’m fine, love.”

He couldn’t seem to put it into words, whatever it was that he was so afraid of. But John knew, without a doubt, that  it wasn’t going to just go away, and sooner or later, he would have to address it.


	17. Cut Your Heart Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What exactly are we doing, here?”
> 
> Chapter title from "Kiss Me, Kill Me" by Mest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Soundtrack:  
> -Scars by Papa Roach  
> -Kiss Me Kill Me by Mest
> 
> FINAL, FINAL FILLER CHAPTER. I PROMISE. IF YOU THINK I'VE BEEN ANGSTING BEFORE NOW, OH, YOU JUST WAIT.
> 
> Things are about to get real painful up in here.

On the rare occasion that John didn’t take his lunches in the lounge with Sherlock, he made his way back down to the security teams’ break room, joining the other men for the meal. Although it wasn’t the same as being in his lover’s company, John had to admit--it did feel a little less stuff, down here amongst his comrades. They were easy-going men, and here in their private space, they could be downright rowdy.

But the revelry faded someone when the door opened unexpectedly during one midday meal, and Charles Magnussen himself entered, closing the door silently behind himself and making his way over to the long table that the men were occupying.

It was as if an unspoken statement was issued; the men excused themselves, and John very abruptly found himself alone in his position at the far end of the table, with his employee moving to claim the suddenly-empty chair opposite him. John’s breath caught slightly, bewildered by the show of almost friendly camaraderie, staring back at Magnussen as the older man smiled benignly at him.

“I thought I’d catch you off the clock, as it were, and have just a little informal chat,” Magnussen explained, his eyes hard to see behind the reflecting lenses of his glasses. “Just to see how things are going, from your personal perspective. Is it working out, handling security for Sherlock alone, whenever you two are out of the house?”

John nodded, uncertain but hardly able to not reply. “Yes, sir. He’s...he’s no trouble at all, and we’ve yet to have any incidents. Everyone who knows him in town is always pleased to see him.”

“Good, good.” Magnussen actualled beamed at him, the expression a little alien on his otherwise lifeless features. He lifted his hands to remove his glasses, cleaning the lenses slowly. “And your family--I believe it’s been awhile since I’ve inquired after their health?”

John swallowed, unaccountably nervous. It felt like his first job interview with the man, but with stakes a thousand times higher--and hidden from him. “They’re--they’re great, yeah. My sister’s found work again.”

John had no idea if that was true, but he needed more than three words to answer every statement that Magnussen made.

“I believe Sherlock mentioned meeting your sister.”

John shook his head a little at that, fingers flexing on the fork he still held. “No, uh, he met Clara--my sister in law. Harriet’s wife.”

“Ah, yes, of course, that is what he said. That she was delightful, and someone he could see himself being friends with.” Magnussen’s smile had gone back to its normal appearance--small, a touch tight, knowing, as if he were playing chess--and winning--while his conversation partner was merely treading water.

John swallowed again, his throat feeling irrationally tight. “They got on quite well, yes, sir.” He hesitated, wondering if he could risk being a little familiar with Magnussen. There was nothing but open receptiveness in Magnussen’s posture and expression, so he chose to dare, with only a quick mental prayer that the man would simply dismiss him if he was out of line. “Sir--may I ask about--how you and Sherlock ended up together? I don’t wish to be impertinent, I just--”

“Perfectly understandable,” Magnussen interjected, smiling surprisingly kindly back at him. “We do seem to be a case of opposites attracting, I know. I met Sherlock through his elder brother--lovely man, we had some business affairs together...I was enchanted by Sherlock, truthfully.” He chuckled, absently twisting his wedding band on his finger. “He was quite a bit younger, then, and utterly impossible. But eventually he gave me a little of his time...and when I proposed, the brothers both saw it as a fortuitous forward path.”

John could not decide if that sounded practical, or utterly callous, so he said nothing about it, just nodded. “And it’s been--seven years?”

“Nearly eight now, yes...time has flown by.” Magnussen’s smile turned blander, the fleeting moment of seeming friendliness fading back to professionalism. He stood, giving John a polite nod. “I’ll leave you to your free time, Dr. Watson. Thank you for indulging me in a little chat.”

John watched the man leave the room, barely able to shake himself of the chill that lingered in his wake. He found himself without an appetite to finish his lunch.

* * *

Post-coital at Baker Street the following Saturday, Sherlock collapsed onto his back, grinning smugly and still panting a little as he looked over at John, ice-blue eyes twinkling. “I really almost wish that I still smoked, with how good these rendezvous are becoming.”

John merely snorted a laugh, watching his lover’s profile from where he was still on his own back--when Sherlock was in a mood, he was nearly animalistic, and it was almost all that John could do to merely get out of his clothing and let the man have at him, sprawled across the bed--as Sherlock pushed his long hair out of his eyes. “Think your husband would notice if you started up again,” he pointed out in a mild tone, but Sherlock merely scoffed, clearly unoffended by the reminder.

“As if he would care--possibly as if he would even notice, honestly. As long as I do it on the balcony so the smoke doesn’t affect the books or furniture, what’s it to him what I do in the lounge?”

That had John chewing on his bottom lip for a moment, watching Sherlock as he sat up and checked a text from Mycroft, answering it with a somewhat amused expression. That was another change--John had only ever seen softly exasperated brotherly warmth between them, but since their affair had begun, Sherlock seemed sometimes to be downright fond of his sibling.

“Sherlock,” John said softly, and when the younger man looked back over at him, John sucked in a breath, refusing to let himself back down under the intensity of those beautiful, breathtaking eyes. How he loved those eyes “What exactly are we doing, here?”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, a flash of disquiet flaring behind his gaze. “I’d have thought that obvious, John.” When the older man merely gave him a pointed look for his snark, Sherlock sighed heavily, shrugging as he discarded his phone on the bedside table and flopped back down beside John, staring up at the ceiling. “I don’t know--do we have to fuss over labels and definitions? Can’t we just be happy?”

“I would say yes, but I don’t believe that you _are_ happy,” John replied, a little more sharply than he had intended to sound. “Why are you even married to him, Sherlock? It seems as if you _hate_ him.”

The younger man looked away completely, briefly concealing his face from John--but he didn’t miss the way that Sherlock’s jaw tightened, perhaps with frustration, or with pain. “I don’t hate him. Hatred requires too much energy to be sustained.” Tapping his phone to ignore an incoming text, Sherlock rolled over to lie on his belly, propping his chin on John’s stomach and staring up at him, eyes wide and unusually plaintive. “Please, John, can we argue about it later? I’d rather have fun while we’re here--nothing can touch us in this place. This, here, is safe; I don’t want to think about Charles.”

John wanted to insist, to argue that they couldn’t _not_ think about the man whose existence was keeping them on pins and needles with their relationship, forever afraid of being caught, and forced apart...but with Sherlock warm and heavy against him, eyes pleading and fingers stroking over his skin, he simply couldn’t bring himself to hurt his love further.

“Alright,” he whispered, regretful but resigned. Sherlock’s utter relief undid him, forcing the dark thoughts from his mind for another moment.

* * *

What finally broke John was his next visit to Harry and Clara’s house. Harry was asleep, according to her wife...having gotten so piss drunk the night before that the police had brought her home, only not taking her to the drunk tank overnight because she had cooperated with their efforts to collect her from the pub.

Clara’s eyes were swollen from crying and still glistening with unshed tears, and when she sat down beside John on the sofa, he could only wrap his arm around her, hugging her tightly in wordless, helpless consolation.

His sister-in-law sniffled, tucking her face into his shoulder. “Why must love be so bloody awful sometimes?” she asked quietly, wiping her eyes weakly as the tears just kept on coming. “I can’t stand it, John, I want to protect  her, but she just blocks me out. I’m bloody helpless, here. She just won’t let me make it better, she doesn’t want to do the work.”

John listened, his chest constricting as Clara voiced her feelings, hearing how horribly they echoed his own predicament uncannily. “I s’pose that’s what love _is_ ,” he replied wearily, voice soft to avoid disturbing Harry out of her current state. “Sticking to the fight, even when they’re half the thing that’s making it into a battle at all.”

Clara’s voice turned a touch cross, though it was still thick with pain and sadness. “Sometimes I just want to wash my hands of it. Divorce her ungrateful arse, walk away, and see what happens. Let her destroy herself alone--or see if she cleans the fuck up and comes looking to apologize.” She paused, then sighs sulkily. “And I would take her back, that’s the rub of it. I love her so damn much, John.”

“Know you do,” he murmured back, just as sadly and nearly as bitterly. “And hey--if it helps, you know I love you like family. I’m glad you’ve stuck around so long.”

Clara smiled faintly at that assurance, and she nodded, turning her face to kiss his cheek. “I do know that. Aside from how bloody much I love your sister, you’re part of the reason I can endure it all.” She sat up a bit, wiping her eyes and composing herself, and sighed again. “So...how’s Sherlock?”

John paused at the unexpected mention, a frown creasing his brow; he was suddenly struck by how his situation really looked, from the outside.

“He’s fine,” he said finally, quiet, and Clara didn’t press at the sudden weariness in his voice. She squeezed her hand, excusing herself to go check on Harry, and John sat in silence, staring worriedly into space.

* * *

They ate at Angelo’s again on the next weekend out, and halfway through dinner Sherlock looked up, his eyes unnaturally dark in the cozy, candle-lit ambiance of the little eatery. “John...please, tell me what’s upsetting you?”

John met his gaze over their meals and wine glasses, seeing the pain and need for answers in his boyfriend’s face. But the older man merely shook his head, pasting on a quick smile that he knew would do nothing to support the lie that came next. “I just have a slight headache. I’m alright, sweetheart.”

When they returned to Baker Street after eating, John could tell at once that Sherlock was afraid this time, afraid to touch him first.

It reminded John of their first kiss, in this very room. Of the way that Sherlock had looked at him, with such longing and pleading in his eyes, begging John to close that final step between them, to make his desire for the older man alright. Of how gratefully and hungrily Sherlock had surrendered and melted into his hands when John finally took what was his. And that pang of nostalgia, that surge of beautiful sense memory, made John want to forget all of his stress over what they were doing, and to stop feeling guilty or lost.

He gave in with a broken groan, dragging Sherlock in for a hard kiss, feeling him sag into the doctor’s arms as eagerly as always.

John did not waste time maneuvering them through the obstacle-filled kitchen toward the bedroom; he bore Sherlock down onto the leather sofa behind him, drinking the younger man’s desperate noises and encouraging words from his soft, gasping mouth, clinging to something that John now began to realize had never truly been his, even for a moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are going to be chapters ahead that have some heavy trigger warnings in them, but I don't want to spoil things for people who don't know if they need to be warned...I'm not sure how to proceed, truthfully.
> 
> In the meantime, I can't freaking figure out links, so.........here......https://minxchester.deviantart.com/art/For-AO3-718629063?ga_submit_new=10%3A1512510517
> 
> That's my floorplan of the lounge! Yay.


	18. Leave Me Scarred

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It had been fourteen months since John started work at Appledore London. Close to thirteen of those, he had spent knowing Sherlock; nearly the same had been spent being assigned as his bodyguard."
> 
> Chapter title from the song the story is named after, "Northern Light" by Basshunter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter soundtrack:  
> -"Northern Light" by Basshunter  
> -"Strange" by Tokio Hotel  
> -"Immortals" by Fall Out Boy
> 
> I want to apologize profusely, two-fold: 1) This should have been posted a week ago, but my parents came to see me graduate, and family drama is CRAY. Lordy. 2) I was going to merge this and chapter 19 to make it longer, but.........chapter 19 has a potentially squicky scene and I wanted to be able to write a warning. So, read the closing comments for content warning or skip them if you're confident you're trigger-free. <3

It had been fourteen months since John started work at Appledore London. Close to thirteen of those, he had spent knowing Sherlock; nearly the same had been spent being assigned as his bodyguard.

Half of that time was spent with John being helplessly in love with him. Less than a third of it in which he had actually gotten to actively love the man. And by now, John was going insane.

He had known what was coming since the last talk with Clara, had known that he was putting them both into far too much danger. If Magnussen ever found out that they were sleeping together--that John was in love with his chaotic, insane, beautiful charge--John would lose his job and all professional reputation, and Sherlock...Sherlock. John’s mind leapt back to the bruises blossoming like paint stains across his lover’s skin, and he winced. He did not want to know what might happen to Sherlock if Magnussen wished to punish his husband for straying from his marriage vows.

John knew what was coming, but he did not want to face it.

His day off for the week was going to be later than usual, occuring on a Thursday. The day before, John sat quietly beside Sherlock in his lounge for the entire morning and afternoon, barely a word passing between them. The silence had always been so companionable, but today...today it felt loaded. Weighted with painful awareness that neither man wanted to put a name to.

He knew that the younger man was worrying the whole day, but Sherlock was clearly afraid to break this toxic stillness between them. Sherlock rose to play his violin after Mrs. Hudson had brought them lunch--he had eaten no more than a bite or two, and John did not miss that fact, but he said nothing as he ate his own sandwich.

As he listened to the haunting music weaving through the airy room, John caught hints and traces of Toora Loora mixed into the tunes, and his heart constricted with agony. Sherlock was pleading with him wordlessly, but John had no other choice.

As his on-duty hours wound down, John went to use the bathroom in Sherlock’s rooms. It had been months since he had felt like a stranger in this wing, John reflected, and it felt as if it could be his own bedroom--even if he had never been in any of these rooms without his uniform, or outside of his role as Sherlock’s guard.

When he re-emerged from the bathroom, Sherlock was waiting for him beside the bed, watching the older man warily. John stayed where he was by the bathroom door.

“John...”

The doctor shook his head, cutting off Sherlock’s words. “We--Sherlock, what we’ve been doing is....it’s not right. It’s dangerous, and it isn’t going to end well for either of us, no matter what. But...”

He paused then, watching as Sherlock’s eyes widened with understanding as he realized where John was heading with this--that he intended to do it, he was going to say this. Sherlock shook his head immediately, stepping closer, moving out of view of the lounge. John stepped back almost in sync, maintaining the space between them.

“It’s the less cruel end to it, if we just--face it ourselves. It’s safer for both of us.” He dragged in a hard breath, struggling valiantly not to notice the way that Sherlock was trembling, his entire lanky body quivering. He suddenly looked just like he had right before John had kissed him for the first time--but now, his terror was much more palpable, with none of the anticipation or longing.

“I can’t let you get hurt, not if--not because of me,” John continued, relieved that there was barely a tremor in his voice. “You’re _married_ , Sherlock. And unless that ends, you will always have that hanging over you...over us. It’s not that I think you love him--I have no bloody idea what you feel.” John paused, trying to fight back the bitterness of those thoughts in order to keep speaking.“But I can’t be this person for you. Not when I see how it wrecks people--I watch Clara fall apart daily, and yet she keeps on fighting for Harry. But it’s destroying her very soul.”

John swallowed unsteadily. On his wrist, his watch beeped softly, notifying him to go downstairs and clock out for the day.

“John.” Sherlock sounded utterly ragged, and John could not bear the sight of his face. The brokenness in his iridescent eyes. “Don’t go.”

The older man shook his head. “I have to, Sherlock, I’m done for the day.” He hesitated, and then he nodded slowly, as if he was only just then convincing himself that what had just been said was true. “I’m done. I’ll--I’ll be back day after tomorrow, and--and that’s it, from now on, alright? We have to--pretend. We have to just let it go, forget it ever happened. Please. I need this job, and I need to know that you’re safe, and alright. I want to stay close, I just can’t--keep this up.”

Sherlock’s eyes were glistening, legitimate tears forming in the corners, and John could physically feel his own heart being rent in two. “John, please don’t do this,” Sherlock whispered, and the doctor set his jaw at the raw pain.

“I should never have put us into this mess to begin with,” he replied, keeping his gaze fixed just above Sherlock’s head. He could not meet the man’s eyes, could not see the wounds that he was inflicting on the person that he loved so overwhelmingly, so futilely. “I’m just--doing the right thing, now. I’m sorry, Sherlock. I really am. But it has to be this way.”

He waited a second longer, watching as Sherlock began to crumble openly, and John could do nothing to save him. Not from his feelings, or this loss, or from John himself.

Swallowing, he moved a step closer--and saw Sherlock flinch.

John despised himself.

“I am so sorry” he repeated, little more than a whisper. “I’ll--I’ll see you day after tomorrow.”

John turned to walk toward the bedroom door, and he was already at the door between the hallway and the lounge when he heard Sherlock call out his name, his voice utterly broken and miserable.

John did not stop.

* * *

He spent his day off in town with Clara, accompanying her to go grocery shopping and walking in the park. It was cold out, gloomy and grey and reflecting John’s mindset, but he could hardly pay any mind to his surroundings.

John was in agony, and he knew that Clara could tell. But she did not ask what happened between him and Sherlock, and John didn’t offer the information.

As they were re-stocking the cupboards in her kitchen, Harry watching television quietly in the living room--the eggshells between John’s sister and her wife were tangible, but he returned her kindness and did not comment--Clara spoke quietly, placing the eggs and meat in the fridge slowly. “Did you--he didn’t want to leave his husband?”

John paused as he alphabetized the tea boxes out of habit, knowing that Harry would leave them in disarray later on without even noticing that they had been in any particular order, and then he sighed quietly. “It isn’t that. It’s--it was just too much, overall. I couldn’t keep being the other man. It was simply too wrong.”

Finishing what she was doing, Clara closed the fridge and straightened, reaching out to touch his hand. She didn’t say anything more; and after a long, stifled silence, John gave himself this one moment to just hurt. He sank into her shoulder as she hugged him tightly, letting her pet a tender hand through his hair, murmuring soothing nothings to him. But John did not let himself cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for chapter 19:  
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> Non/dubiously consensual sex scene between Sherlock and his husband. Internalized dark thoughts and feelings such as self-loathing or self-isolation.  
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> Also, a future chapter contains content relating to suicide attempts, so if anyone needs serious explanation and warning for what is to come, please let me know.


	19. He Kissed My Lips, I Taste Your Mouth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Work became a different type of hell."
> 
> Chapter title is from "Thinking of You" by Katy Perry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter soundtrack:  
> -"Comatose" by Skillet (Both POV)  
> -"Thinking of You" by Katy Perry (Sherlock POV)  
> -"Haunted" by Kelly Clarkson (Both/Sherlock POV)
> 
> Merry Christmas, have more angst! :D
> 
> Chapter has potentially discomforting/triggering sexual content, see warnings in the closing notes of the previous chapter. Things still get even worse for our pretty boys, rest assured. :D

Work became a different type of hell, when John returned on Friday. It had been bad enough being worried about Sherlock all this time, without having any idea of what was going on inside his head. It had only become worse when John had first realized that he was falling for the man, and then devastating while they were...whatever it was that they had been.

But it was a whole new level of torture to enter the lounge on Friday morning, armed and in uniform, and to see Sherlock sitting quietly in his armchair with a book as if nothing had changed two days before. He did not look up as John entered, continuing to gaze at the page he was on, but John saw within three seconds that his gaze wasn’t moving across the page.

Without a word, John sat down as well, and after about five minutes Sherlock finally turned the page. He still said nothing, and John tapped one finger against his leg absently, wondering if this was how it was going to be from now on. No warmth or friendship, none of the curiosity or amiability, even, from their earliest days of acquaintanceship. Just silence, cold and empty.

If that was the case, John had to admit, then he might have made a mistake in trying to separate them emotionally and sexually. Others in the household would notice if between one day and the next, the two of them went from being thick as thieves to Sherlock being unwilling to even look at him.

He endured it through the weekend and into Monday morning--three long, horrible, silent days--before John cracked, and addressed it as Sherlock once more remained seated for hours straight, book open and pages not turning.

“Sherlock,” he said quietly into the stillness, and John suppressed a sigh when he saw the younger man flinch at the sound of his voice after so many days. “If you have to, then you may request that I stop serving as your bodyguard. But we can’t...do _this_. You can’t be this apparent that something has changed between us.”

John saw Sherlock’s lips tighten at his words, the skin whitening, and the doctor had a feeling that his words had been taken very wrongly.

“Nothing has changed,” Sherlock stated in reply, his tone flat and hollow. “I read, I play, I draw like I always do. And you, for some reason, are being paid a soldier’s fee to sit in my company, making sure that I’m not doing anything amiss.” His upper lip curled then, derision flickering into his expression. “God knows, we wouldn’t want me getting into any kind of mischief in my own private rooms.”

John sighed out loud this time, heavily. “Please don’t be this way, Sherlock. I am _trying_ to protect you--and us. If your husband caught us--”

“If Charles knew, then he would have already dismissed you from service; and if he has yet to find out, he may just--re-assign you within the house, or some such.” Sherlock’s voice remained toneless. “I’m sorry that you believe there’s some great, ominous danger lingering over our heads. Perhaps you were right. Perhaps it would have been better if none of it had ever had occurred.”

John swallowed past the sudden boulder-sized lump in his throat, despising the levelness of Sherlock’s speech. It was almost impossible to remember that this same man used to look at him with fire in his eyes, fingers grasping at John’s body as if for dear life.

“Maybe you’re right, maybe nothing would ever have come of it,” he murmured, picking up the nearest book to him simply for something to do with his hands, but he didn’t move to open it. “But I can’t go on...feeling how I do for you, and not expect to end up burned, the way we were going. Please, Sherlock--that has to seem reasonable to you. As long as we’re--as long as you’re still married, and I work for your husband, where does that leave us?”

For the first time since John had left on the previous Wednesday, Sherlock looked up at him, and it was as if a wall of ice had slid down over his gaze. It closed off something that John hadn’t even realized had been warming his soul since the first time he had laid eyes on Sherlock--standing not five feet from where he now sat, his violin at his shoulder and none of the grief present that is currently lining his posture.

“I suppose it leaves us where we always were,” Sherlock replied levelly. “Nowhere.”

With that he fell silent once more, and he did not say another word for the rest of the day. John occasionally looked over at him above the book that he hadn’t even read the title of, trying to gauge whether he should speak again--but it felt, truly, as if there was simply no point.

* * *

Charles was watching him, closely, and Sherlock was aware that his behavior had regressed enough to be blatantly visible--even a man far less observant than his spouse would see that he was upset, and colder than ever before toward everyone he encountered. But Sherlock could not seem to get his agitation under control; and even if he could have, Charles would have still known, so Sherlock saw no point in trying. In fact, hiding it would just make his husband pick up on it more.

As they sat at dinner together, Charles sipped his wine, tilting his head as he regarded his younger companion thoughtfully. “Did you and Dr. Watson have a row, Sherlock?”

He paused in his eating, glancing up at his husband with bland curiosity above their roasts. “No. Why do you ask?”

Of course, Charles merely smiled at that, and Sherlock’s stomach clenched. _Fuck_. The man knew, he always fucking knew

“You seem...distressed,” Charles replied, delicately slicing more meat, and spearing it with a cube of potato. “Considering how much happier you’ve been in the months since he became your constant companion, I worried that something had gone amiss between you, causing this anger you’re showing. You seem to have returned to your former temperament. And then some,” he added, nearly smirking.

Sherlock inhaled slowly, striving for a level voice. He needed to exhibit better control in Charles’ presence “I hadn’t been aware I changed particularly much. I--apologize for any seeming coldness,” he added, stiffly, knowing that he didn’t sound sincere. Apologies always burned like acid in his throat, even if Sherlock could find some way of pretending that they were owed.

Charles chuckled, his eating his bite and then beginning to slice another. “Oh, you know I don’t mind. As long as you behave yourself, you’re free to _feel_ whatever you like.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, struck by the specificity of that phrasing; Charles had never said anything like it before. It seemed as if it could have two meanings. That Sherlock could feel however he liked toward his husband, so long as he was compliant...or that he could feel whatever he wanted in general, as long as he didn’t breach their contract. Which opened...some possibilities of renegotiating the fairly stringent expectations of their marriage.

But then again, Sherlock supposed, it didn’t matter at all, not anymore. John refused to have him anymore while married, and Sherlock could neither dissolve that union, nor tell the doctor the truth about it all. And aside from John, there was little else that Sherlock found himself wanting in terms of rebellion against his husband.

Which...meant that he had no other purpose for resistance. There was simply no reason for it.

“I don’t hate you, you know,” he said abruptly, looking back up. The words had come from nowhere; Sherlock had meant them when he said them to John at Baker Street, but he had never imagined that he would feel any desire to tell them to Charles directly. He had never cared one way or another if his husband thought he hated him, or not. “I think you believe that to be the case, but I don’t.”

Charles lowers his fork, raising one eyebrow slightly. There was genuine surprise in his cold, shark-like eyes, and Sherlock had to admit, it was marginally satisfying to have surprised the older man. “You don’t?”

Sherlock swallowed, then shook his head. No sense in backing down now. “No. I don’t--I don’t need to. It’s an emotion that takes far too much strength to maintain, and I wouldn’t have endured this many years if I let it consume me.”

His husband cocked his head slightly, pursing his lips in consideration before slowly removing his glasses and beginning to clean them. Sherlock’s eyes followed his hands, watching the lenses reflect the candlelight flickering and dancing between them.

So often he had found those lenses nearly mesmerizing, distracting Sherlock from the darkness of his everyday reality “Interesting perspective,” Charles murmured, glancing up at him as he finished cleaning the glasses, and slid them smoothly back onto the bridge of his nose. “I am impressed; I’ve often wondered if it would take you decades to adjust to our....dynamic.”

Sherlock’s mouth curled very slightly, neither amused nor cynical. “I don’t think I could have managed decades, living like that.”

When their dinner was cleared away and the dining room door closed once more behind the ever-silent serving staff, Charles stood, making his way around the table at a leisurely pace and pausing beside Sherlock’s chair. He placed two fingers beneath the younger man’s chin, tilting his face up. For once, Sherlock didn't shudder at the moist touch.

“Come to bed,” Charles said quietly, as if testing him. Sherlock blinked slowly as he processed the command, and then he pushed his chair back and stood up wordlessly, waiting until Charles turned to go into his adjoining rooms before following without complaint.

Once they were in Charles’ bedroom, Sherlock shut the door behind himself, looking back at his husband in quiet expectation. Charles moved to stand in front of the fireplace, which was burning low and casting the room in a soothing, warm golden red light, a sharp contrast to the ice in the man himself. He raised one hand, gesturing for Sherlock to approach.

When Sherlock was front of him, Charles waved the raised hand slightly, indicating what he wanted.

Obeying at once, Sherlock reached up to unbutton his own shirt, slowly and diligently, until he could slide it off, and he handed it to Charles to be placed over the back of the nearby chair. His husband continued watching him, and Sherlock weighed his options; making the choice, he reached out again, and began unbuttoning Charles’ shirt, as well.

Once that was finished, Sherlock gently pushed the older man’s jacket off and let him drape it as well, then repeated the process with his husband’s shirt.

When they were both bare-chested, Sherlock stilled again, because he wasn’t sure how much of a performance his husband would want. He looked up at Charles uncertainly, and the older man smiled faintly, reaching up to cup Sherlock’s cheek almost tenderly. “Lie down, Sherlock.”

Sherlock blinked, slowly, feeling as if he was drugged as he turned and went over to the bed. He drew back the covers and crawled onto the bed to lie in the center of the mattress on his back, his head cushioned by Charles’ neat stack of pillows. They smelled like his spouse, something cool and herbal, with a hint of cigar smoke underlying it. Truthfully, it wasn’t all that unpleasant.

Charles climbed up onto the bed as well, and Sherlock lifted his hands to eye level, sliding them beneath the pillows under his hand and gripping the soft, downy shape of them.

In a dreamlike state, he watched Charles’ deft fingers undo his trousers, then gently slide them down his legs along with his underwear, until Sherlock lay bare before him in his bed.

He was still soft--Sherlock truly doubted that anything could arouse him at this moment, because the thought of John sent nausea curling through him, rather than longing--but Charles clearly didn’t mind his physical indifference to their activities. His touches were gentle over Sherlock’s body, almost clinical; he guided the younger man’s legs apart and Sherlock spread them wordlessly, only letting out a barely-audible gasp when he eventually felt lube-slick fingers against his entrance.

But for once in, possibly a first in the entire course of their marriage, Sherlock did not tense, or need to struggle to breathe through it. He simply lay there, still and compliant, his eyes slowly blinking open and closed with the count of his breaths, and felt the methodical way that his husband opened his body to take him.

Sherlock heard Charles remove his own trousers, which was unusual for them--the older man was almost always at least partially dressed when he fucked Sherlock. But the change wasn’t significant enough to make Sherlock react outwardly.

When Charles’ hands slid beneath his thighs, encouraging his legs to lift up for his husband, Sherlock moved them obligingly, letting his legs bracket the other man’s hips. His hands remained where they were beneath the pillows, and the only sound that Sherlock made was a soft, humming sigh as Charles finally pushed inside of him, slowly and smoothly, and then began to rock forward.

If Sherlock didn’t absolutely know better, he might almost compare it to the serene way that John had slid inside him their very first time together--a different position, of course, but the result was the same. It was almost more love-making than just sex.

But he found that he did not have the strength to put those words into the same line of thought as his husband, even inside his mind. Sherlock closed his eyes, relaxing, and simply let Charles have him, not wanting to dwell on the unbearably tender way that he was touching Sherlock. As if the younger man mattered, as if he was precious to his possessor, and not just an object that he triumphed in owning.

It went on this way for several long moments, Charles’ hands stroking over him gently as he thrust into Sherlock over and over, so tenderly. Sherlock kept his eyes shut.

Then Charles’ fingers grazed over his face, unexpected, and Sherlock blinked them open, looking up at his husband curiously. Charles’ expression was odd, as if he was searching for something in Sherlock’s face.

He leaned down, and Sherlock knew why, but he did not stop him. When Charles kissed him, Sherlock parted his lips to accept it, reading the message in the kiss as clearly as if Charles was whispering it into his mouth. _You are mine._   _I am all you have._

The kiss broke. Abruptly Charles slipped out of him, making Sherlock whimper in surprise despite his usual resolve to remain silent. Then he was rolling the younger man over, pushing him up onto his knees, and Sherlock hastened to get his hands under himself to support his own weight.

His mind leapt back, unbidden, to the day that John had seen Charles’ marks on his body at Baker Street as he took Sherlock in this same position. But this was an different kind of ownership entirely, less loving and more demanding.

Even so, his body reacted to the sense memory of how John had handled him that day, confused and uncertain and angry at the evidence of another’s claim. Sherlock felt as if his brain was on fire, unable to sort through his emotions...there was longing, grief, and--

Charles pushed back into him from behind, one hand tight on his hip and the other sliding up, up and around to Sherlock’s chest, drawing him up into an arched position, his back pressed close to his husband’s chest. The heat across his skin was searing, and Sherlock’s eyes sank closed again as unexpected arousal surged through him, shocking in its heat and intensity.

His cock hardened between his thighs, and Sherlock jerked in surprise, opening his eyes to stare down at it in amazement and disbelief. Sex was not an unfamiliar experience--obviously--but he had never, in eight years, been aroused for Charles.

Even if it isn’t really about Charles here and now, the point was still the same, and Sherlock was hard.

Charles’ lips brushed against his earlobe, shocking Sherlock more when he spoke, the voice in his ear all wrong when linked with the sensations that Sherlock was experiencing in his body. “What’s this, then? Would you...like a hand with that, Sherlock?”

He could only shudder in response, letting his eyes sink closed again. It was the only answer he could muster the strength to give. Charles’ hand moved downward, sliding from Sherlock’s chest down over his belly, pausing above his now fully hard, bobbing cock. When the younger man said nothing in protest, did nothing, Charles continued the descent, and his long, damp fingers closed around the shaft of his husband’s erection.

Sherlock shivered from head to feet, one hand clamping onto Charles’ wrist--not stopping him, just holding on.

The older man stroked him swiftly, more clinical than romantic, but it got the job done. Within minutes Sherlock was shuddering, and he shocked them both by twisting his head to bury his face into Charles’ neck when he finally came, pulsing wetly over his husband’s fingers. He could feel Charles go still for a single heartbeat, even down to his hand; but Sherlock whimpered, and Charles came back to life, jerking him through his climax.

He released the younger man’s cock only when Sherlock wriggled slightly, oversensitive.

Sherlock all but collapsed back onto his hands and knees, and Charles refocused on his own pleasure then, grasping Sherlock’s hips with both hands--his fingers were still slick and dripping with Sherlock’s come--and fucking into him harder and faster than he had in a long time. But with the lingering tingles of his orgasm rippling through him, for the first time, Sherlock did not mind the brutality of the taking. He simply accepted it, panting softly, closing his eyes when he felt Charles stiffen and heard him groan, feeling when his husband came inside of him at last.

Sherlock fell onto his belly as soon as he was released, slumping over to his side as Charles left the bed at once to clean himself off. Normally Sherlock would gather his clothes and escape at such a time, not wanting even a moment of post-coital interaction--but this time, just for now, he remained still.

He heard Charles return and did not look up. Then a warm, damp cloth touched his skin, cleaning him gently of the sweat and come clinging to his body, and Sherlock huffed out a noise. He received only an affirming hum. Perhaps it was a thank you, and an acknowledgment, or perhaps it meant nothing.

Only when he was clean did Sherlock slide off of the bed, not meeting his husband’s gaze as he re-dressed. He headed toward the door back onto the landing, only to pause as Charles spoke softly from the bed. “Goodnight, Sherlock.”

Sherlock looked back at the man, who was now reclining in his bed like a King surveying his conquest. Sherlock nodded in reply, speechless, then slipped out the door and padded silently back toward his own rooms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is it weird that I like this chapter? I have a thing, I dunno. I like twisted ships. The tension between Charles and Sherlock is what made me need to write this fic to begin with. XD Interpret that as you will for what it says about me...


	20. I Tried to Give You Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Sherlock looked up and directly at John for the first time, but his expression was utterly void of emotion."
> 
> Chapter title from "Time is Running Out" by Muse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 20 soundtrack:  
> -"Time is Running Out" (Muse)  
> -"Kiss Me Kill Me" (Mest)
> 
> No outstanding trigger warnings for this chapter, but there is one for the next, so please see the finals comments if you want a warning that is a spoiler--but I can't not add it. It's too important. I've tried to format it so that if you're confident you'll be okay and want to not be spoiled, you don't have to see it. You can just scroll back up the page. :)

John clocked in once again, his movements mechanical and stiff; he wasn’t even certain if he had slept the night before. Or at all, since he had made the choice to end things with Sherlock. He supposed he had to have slept at least a little; he was functioning well enough, which he knew objectively that he wouldn’t be able to do with no sleep at all.

But he wasn’t rested, and his eyes burned with exhaustion and frustration. His limbs felt heavy and weighed down, and it was as if there was an enormous burden pressing into his back, hunching his shoulders and weakening his spine.

He felt old and worn down.

John wasn’t really looking at where he was going other than to be sure that he wasn’t colliding with other staff members or with furniture. As a result, he was halfway into the lounge toward the chairs already before he abruptly registered that Sherlock was not alone.

Charles Magnussen was sitting beside his husband on the loveseat that Sherlock always occupied, pressed directly up against the younger man’s side, with one arm slung loosely across the back of the little sofa to wrap lightly around Sherlock’s shoulders.

John stopped in his tracks, entirely confused by what he was seeing, and his employer looked up at the sudden motion. He had been watching Sherlock’s hands as he drew, more or less reclined into the older man’s hold. At the very least, his body completely lacked any of the usual tension or discomfort that John would expect to see in him, just from being in the same room as Charles.

But on the contrary--Sherlock looked _at ease_ in his spouse’s company.

“Ah, Dr. Watson! Good morning.” Magnussen looked utterly at ease, his smile as close to genuine as John had ever seen on the man’s face. “So sorry to intrude. I just came by to see Sherlock, and perhaps spend some more time with him. We rarely do, I’ve realized.” His smile turned benign as he looked back at Sherlock, and John watched in silent disbelief as Magnussen lifted one hand from the loveseat, and stroked his fingers softly through Sherlock’s unruly dark curls. The younger man did not react in the slightest, not to flinch or even shift away. He didn’t even stop his drawing as the older man continued speaking, still gently caressing his head. “Goodness, Sherlock, your hair is getting long again.”

Only then did Sherlock look up, turning to glance at his husband with what could actually be called a smirk. “You always say that. But you never tell me to cut it,” he returned, his voice perfectly level and calm. There was no distress or dislike, not even a quiver. If anything, that was almost a touch of humor to it, and hearing it made something dark and pained curl up inside of John’s bones like a cancer.

“Well, it is _your_ hair, not mine,” Charles retorted, chuckling drily. Sherlock merely snorted before he returned to his drawing, and Magnussen looked over at John once more, seemingly ignoring the standing man’s dumbstruck expression. “I think it looks nice at any length. Don’t you agree, Dr. Watson? Some men simply can’t do with long hair, but it suits Sherlock just as well as short hair would."

John had to strive for a level voice, and to keep the concern and disgust that he was feeling out of his tone. “I...I think that it suits him fine, yes, sir.”

Sherlock looked up and directly at John for the first time, but his expression was utterly void of emotion. It was this that hit John harder than anything else about this disturbing, surreal scene; Sherlock didn’t even look as if he was _trying_ to appear indifferent. He simply _was_. There was no life in his eyes, not even the spark of wry humor that he had looked at Charles with.

John swallowed tightly, and he moved backward a few yards to remain nearer to the door, standing at attention like the soldier that he had been hired to serve Appledore as. Neither Sherlock nor Charles commented on his not joining them in the chairs; Sherlock resumed drawing what appeared to be a sketch of an ornate fireplace with a roaring fire in the hearth, and Charles just watched him quietly, his long pale fingers still tracing absently over the younger man’s shoulders and back.

When John clocked out that afternoon, his stomach was rolling. Magnussen had remained with them the entire day, and had even taken lunch with them; sitting on the loveseat and sharing finger sandwiches and a fruit and cheese plate with Sherlock as if he spent every day, all day, with his reclusive husband.

John had never in his life felt so much like an unwelcome third party in anyone else’s life.

He felt poisoned by what Sherlock was tolerating just to bait him--and yet John couldn’t bring himself to accuse Sherlock even inside the privacy of his mind of doing it _just_ to spite him. There had been such a lack of resistance or displeasure in Sherlock’s face and body language. He had engaged in conversation with Magnussen whenever the older man initiated it, and Sherlock had eaten his whole bloody lunch as the man sat there sharing it with them. Sherlock had even _laughed_.

And when Magnussen had left them, shortly before John’s shift was up for the day, Sherlock had not made any move to protest the man leaning down to kiss his lips in farewell. The image of it was imprinted on the backs of John’s eyelids, burning into his his mind’s eye like acid.

He punched his time card, then went to find Bill where he was observing drills on the front lawn. His friend looked over at him, then paused, raising his eyebrows at the blatant tension in John’s face and the fact that it look him a long moment in order to speak. “I...I need tomorrow off, Bill. Uh, a family issue has come up.”

It felt wrong to lie to his old comrade, but John was desperate to not have to go back into that lounge for at least 24 hours. And Bill knew enough about John’s family  to know that such a claim was likely to always be true--and that John wouldn’t use it to skip work over nothing.

The sergeant frowned, but he nodded. “Sure. I’ll watch out for Mr. Holmes tomorrow, don’t worry. I hope all’s well with your sister,” Bill added, courteous as ever.

John merely nodded in response, turning to leave without further comment. No doubt that would be something Bill called him on later, but for now, though, John was out of strength even to be civil with his good friend. He just needed to go and fall into his bed, and to forget this entire day. And all of the days before it.

* * *

At 8 o’clock on Friday morning, Sherlock glanced up from his music composition book, frowning and setting aside the pencil he had been writing with when he saw that it was Bill who entered. “Sergeant Murray. Is something the matter?”

Bill shook his head, smiling politely as he stopped a few feet away from the circle of armchairs, remaining there at attention and not moving closer. “No, Mr. Holmes. It’s just, Dr. Watson’s requested off today, and this morning we received your next lab shipment. So I came by to see if you’d like to go in--I can accompany you for today, if you don’t want to wait for his return tomorrow."

Sherlock blinked slowly, thinking that over; there could easily be a dozen and a half reasons why John would spontaneously ask off last-minute, and only a few of them directly related to him. It could as easily be Harry in trouble, or Clara just needing her brother-in-law’s strong, supportive presence.

He knew that it was neither of those, but Sherlock still felt drained by his “success” the day before, at hurling it in John’s face that Sherlock had chosen to try and make the best of things with Charles. His spouse’s visit to the lounge had been as much of a surprise for him as it had clearly been for the doctor; but Sherlock had taken advantage of the unexpected situation to remind John of exactly what he was doing by severing ties between them.

Sherlock’s skin still prickled lightly from where Charles had so constantly caressed the back of his neck and shoulders.

So he did not press Sergeant Murray on John’s impromptu absence. If it _was_ because of Sherlock’s cruel performance the day before, then so be it. John was choosing this new, colder arrangement for the two of them, and he could take whatever steps he needed to cope with the aftermath of his decision.

Looking back up at Murray, Sherlock nodded, setting aside his composition work. “Yes, I think that that would be good. Thank you, Sergeant.”

Bill unlocked the lab to let him side, along with the delivery man dropping off four large new boxes of supplies and fresh lab equipment. Once the parcels were signed for and the man had left, Bill stepped back to stay near the door, standing guard more than remaining present to monitor or interact with Sherlock. With the length of the room between the two men, he remained at attention as Sherlock began sorting through the newly-arrived items.

As Sherlock removed the last of the smaller cases within the delivery boxes, he paused. To his surprise, there was a sleeve of scalpels inside the final box. He had not received real scalpels in years, along with a variety of other potentially “dangerous” items that a therapist whom he no longer had to see had cautioned Charles against letting him have access to.

He glanced surreptitiously over at Bill, but the sergeant’s gaze was unfocused; he was there on principle, because Sherlock was not permitted in the lab alone. But he wasn’t really watching, which Sherlock personally felt defeated the point--though he was hardly about to argue now.

Sherlock licked his lips, then removed one of the scalpels from the sleeve and dropped it silently into his jacket pocket. He supposed it risked tearing the fine material of the suit he was wearing; but all things considered, Sherlock felt that such a thing was the least of his concerns.

He placed the rest of the scalpels into one of the drawers at his primary lab table, and turned to lose himself in his experiments.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay....this chapter was fine. But the next has some very grim content, so read on IF you are concerned for potential triggers.  
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> Chapter 21 contains the depiction of a suicide attempt described from the perspective of the individual who finds the victim. This scenario involves mention of blood and open wounds. Please be cautious when reading it.


	21. Flatline

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Something was wrong."
> 
> Chapter title from "Not Gonna Die" by Skillet. Please consider listening to that one--it's absolutely one of the key songs on the soundtrack for me. :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 21 soundtrack:  
> -"My Demons" (Starset) -- Sherlock POV  
> -"Not Gonna Die" (Skillet) -- John/both POV
> 
> So, so sorry it's such a short chapter. It packs its own punch. Please see trigger warning in the closing notes of the previous chapter, this one has a major potential trigger.

Taking Friday off had been the right decision, even if doing it so abruptly had left John feeling disgruntled about the lack of professionalism. He half-wished that he could have told Bill the whole truth, and explained why he needed to step away. But the likelihood of that ending in devastation was far higher than the chances of John getting any peace of mind out of it.

On Saturday morning, he woke up feeling more or less refreshed--more than he had all week, at any rate. He felt very nearly capable of dealing...everything. Nearly.

As he punched his card at 8am on the dot, Bill intercepted him. There was no reprimand in his face regarding the day before, though his words had John suspecting that he had still displeased his commanding officer enough for it to merit some form of reaction. “John--do you mind running a quick drill for me on the grounds? Mr. Magnussen needs me with him upstairs all day, so I can’t lead the lads. I doubt Mr. Holmes could get into too much trouble in one morning,” he added, a little more kindly.

Had it been one month before, John might have smiled at that final statement--Sherlock was more than capable of getting himself into all kinds of situations, and the two of them had certainly gotten up to plenty of “trouble” in less than a morning’s time.

For now, though, he merely nodded and confirmed his orders, too emotionally tired to overthink anything about the request to run drills. Signing off on where he was going, he headed outside to join the men waiting for him out on the lawn.

As the units were running their practices, John couldn’t help glancing up surreptitiously when they found themselves on the north side of the house itself. The familiar gleaming glass walls that formed the lounge winked back at him in the early sunlight--though John couldn’t entirely tell if it felt fond, or cold and angry toward him.

At one point he was certain he saw a shadow pass by the windows, as if Sherlock had left his usual corner to watch John at work, but he couldn’t be completely sure.

* * *

When he finally approached the lounge that afternoon, after having shared lunch with the units he had run drills with, John paused in the long, dim hallway before the double doors. He felt a sudden chill go down his spine, something very wrong striking all of his senses. There was an unnatural stillness in the air, as if the world itself was holding its breath.

John knew without a doubt that something was wrong. He blinked, looking around warily, but nothing in Sherlock’s wing seemed amiss.

Entering the lounge, John stopped again, finally realizing what felt wrong. The air tasted how it always had in field hospitals while he was abroad; the feeling of death was tangible on his tongue as John inhaled sharply. Every vertebrae of John’s spine stiffened, and he looked around, immediately trying to locate Sherlock.

Stepping around the fountain in the room’s center, John finally spotted him, exactly where he had been the very first time that John ever saw him.

But this time, Sherlock was not standing gracefully, bathed in the milky afternoon sunlight as it rippled through the eastern windows. He was not playing his violin, and he was not swaying gently with the irredactable breath of life that John had always seen in him, even at his weakest moments.

Instead, he was lying on the marble floor on his left side, arms extended toward the windows, music sheets scattered across the floor around him. For all of half an instant, John could only think that he must have fainted; that he must not have eaten anything aside from their awkward lunch with Magnussen since John had ended things, and that he had finally collapsed as a result of his self-starvation.

Then John registered the red.

He moved forward as if in slow motion, staring at the scene before him, trying to comprehend what he was looking at. Sherlock’s sleeves were rolled up past his elbows, and the already-pale skin was white as bone, almost chalky in pallor...except for the blood that was smeared across it.

The blood that was still oozing sluggishly from the long, thin slits that ran pristinely up the lengths of each of Sherlock’s forearms from his wrists to his elbows.

John did not stop to think, did not stop to examine his emotions or to try to think of who he needed to call for, first. He ripped off his gear and vest without hesitation, gripping the edge of his plain work shirt and tearing off two wide strips of the thick black cotton material, hitting his knees beside Sherlock’s still form. He worked on instinct, the war flooding back into his veins and muscle memory serving to prevent the rising panic that was filling his ears with white oise. Binding the strips into tourniquets around each of Sherlock’s biceps, John struggled to ignore how violently his fingers were shaking, and his voice emerged in a low, steady whine of pleading.

“Sherlock, for fuck’s sake--don’t--leave me--please, c’mon--hold on, love, please--”

Once he had the temporary tourniquets secured, John fell back onto his heels, twisting to scramble for his gear and trying without success to ignore the blood now streaked over his own hands as he fumbled for the radio on his vest. Sherlock’s blood, crimson lines smeared thick and horrifying across his skin.

He twisted the knob to the channel for the medical lab, knowing that Bill would have a radio tuned to that as well--calling for Molly would mean calling for everybody. “Dr. Hooper?” Nothing, there was nothing, she wasn’t answering. “Dr. Hooper!” Still more silence, useless and killing Sherlock with every passing second. “ _Molly_!”

Objectively, John knew that it must have been all of five seconds, ten maybe, but the time that passed before the radio crackled, and Molly responded, sounding terrified, stretched out in the chasm of John’s mind for an eternity. All that he could see was Sherlock’s face, slack and expressionless, eyes closed, giving John no sign that the man he loved was still inside of its pale, broken shell.

  
_Help me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are going to turn around, from here on out, my loves.


	22. Don't Want the World to See Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I can’t abandon him again."
> 
> Chapter title from "Iris" by Goo Goo Dolls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soundtrack:  
> -"Iris" (Goo Goo Dolls)  
> -"I Am For You" (Waking Ashland)
> 
> If you see typoes feel free to let me know. <3

John didn’t like hospitals. He never had, not since he was young--though he wasn’t sure if that was because of the time he had pneumonia, or perhaps the time Harry got her arm broken by some homophobic bullies at school, or when their mother had died, slowly wasting away in a sterile beige room. All three events had been awful to live through.

He sat in the bleached, bland-as-hell waiting room, shoulders hunched to rest his elbows on his knees as he stared into space. All around him, things beeped and people murmured, a hushed sense of endless waiting thick in the air.

Sherlock was alive. Barely, true, but nonetheless, he was alive.

Molly had reached his side in minutes. She had placed the call for the ambulance, and until it arrived she was able to help John stop the bleeding entirely. The medics took over for them then. At the look on John’s face, Bill hadn’t even attempted to suggest that John not accompany them inside the ambulance.

He had been sitting in this one spot since they had arrived, only stirring to answer his mobile when Bill had called to tell him that Mr. Magnussen was assigning John to wait there at the hospital for the first word on Sherlock. John had mumbled his confirmation, and hung up.

John didn’t think he had ever in his life hated himself as deeply as he did right now.

Sherlock needed him.

That wasn’t just an emotional statement now; it seemed to be an ironclad and undisputable fact. Whether it was directly, solely John’s abandonment that had provoked him to this attempt, or whether more had occurred following John’s withdrawal from Sherlock that had pushed him to thinking he had nothing left...John knew without a doubt whatsoever that if he had not ended their relationship, if he had maintained his commitment to his feelings for the younger man, Sherlock would never had resorted to this.

A small, bitter part of John countered that no one ever _had_ to resort to suicide, and that he should feel angry at his lover, not guilty over his decision. But John could not bring himself to. He had promised his care and loyalty to the other man, had promised Sherlock that he knew what he was getting into and that he was doing it willingly. John might not have told him that he loved him, never could have said the words out loud, but of course he bloody did, and Sherlock had to have known that.

That loss, that had to be what had left Sherlock so broken inside that it was the final straw. Not his loneliness or isolation as Magnussen’s trophy husband, or whatever he was; nothing else about his life--it was losing John, who had _promised_ him and failed him, that had driven Sherlock to feel that he had no hope left.

John closed his eyes, straightening his tired back and leaning to rest his head against the off-white wall. _If he would just wake up...I promise, I won’t let him down again._

A woman in a white coat passed by, and John sat up quickly, but she barely glanced at him. There was no indication that anyone was coming to let him know what was happening anytime soon.

Roughly four hours after they had been rushed in, Bill walked in in full uniform. John didn’t look up, so he was startled into a protest as Bill more or less dragged him onto his feet. “You need to go,” Bill told him quietly, his tone kind, but firm. “You need to rest, John. Go on. I’ll phone you when he wakes up, or if I need replacing, either way. You need at least eight hours off-duty. Go.”

John loathed the very thought of leaving, of being even a foot farther away. But he knew he had no choice; he wasn’t there as Sherlock’s boyfriend, or even as his friend. He was an employee of the broken man’s husband, assigned to stand guard as the doctors battled to save him, and now he was being relieved by his fellow soldier.

Hating himself even more, if possible, John left without a fight.

His feet carried him to the street, into a cab, and to the Yard without overthinking it. It wasn’t until he entered the little pub, and Sally all but shrieked at the sight of him, that John abruptly realized that he still had Sherlock’s blood on the front of his torn shirt. He was amazed the cabby had taken him.

Greg appeared from the back, looking terrified at Sally’s commotion; when he saw John, he grabbed him at once, dragging him into the back room behind the bar as Sally hurried to apologize to their few other customers for her outburst.

In Greg’s office, John accepted a clean shirt from his friend, smiling faintly at the fact that Greg was surprisingly broader-shouldered than he was; the shirt hung a touch too loose on his frame.

“You going to tell me whose blood that is, love?” Greg asked, closing the door and pressing a glass of whiskey into John’s hand before sitting opposite him. “You aren’t wounded that I can see, so...”

John sighed, shrugging, and took a drink and felt his heart finally beginning to steady. “Sherlock slit his wrists,” he said bluntly, his voice utterly dull. “He tried to kill himself.”

Greg stilled at once, his eyes widening, and John knew what he was thinking without asking. “I don’t know if Mr. Magnussen has called Mycroft yet. It happened...four and half hours ago. He’s in the hospital now.”

Frowning, Greg nodded, his fingers hovering over his phone where it sat on the corner of his desk before he finally withdrew his hand, looking regretful. “I should wait. He won’t be able to hide that he already knows, if Charles calls him, and you’d be at risk for telling me. Just a pub owner after all, not family,” he murmured wryly, and John snorted bitterly.

“Also a former cop--and possibly his future brother-in-law by marriage?”

Greg merely gave him a tired little smile at that. “Haven’t talked about it yet. He knows I want to, but there’s too much else to worry about in life. Maybe, eventually.”

John sniffed at that, taking another long drink and draining his glass. Greg refilled it without comment. John drank half of it, then shuddered out a breath. “I broke his heart,” he whispered, and Greg arched his eyebrows at the dramatic statement.

Haltingly, John told him the entire story. All of the tension and desire building between them, the affair, and then his decision to end it for his own mental health.

Greg heard him out in silence, no judgment in his face, and when he spoke, his voice was soft.

“John, this isn’t your fault.” When he saw the skeptical look that flashed over the younger man’s face, the former cop smiled sadly, but insisted, “It really isn’t. Sherlock was--is--a much more damaged man than you knew about, at any point since you’ve come into his life. It isn’t your fault because there are things you still don’t know about him, and you couldn’t have prepared for this otherwise.”

John’s jaw tightened, a sudden burst of frustration pushing the words out. “First time I ever came in here, Anderson started to say something about what Sherlock has done before, said that it’s surprising he’s allowed to wander his own house freely. What the hell did he do, Greg?”

The older man actually looked a touch scared for a heartbeat; then he grimaced and looked down at his hands, folding them on the desk. “I s’pose it’s doing no one any good for the one person besides Mycroft, and me, who loves that man to not know the whole thing.” He poured himself another shot, drank it, and sighed. “Look, it’s...if I tell you all of this, you have to _swear_ to me, you’re not going to go storming any castles. Mycroft has been fighting this war for close to a decade, now; you can’t get in his way, you hear me?”

John nodded silently, and Greg inhaled before pushing on. “Round nine years ago, Sherlock was living in the city at Baker Street, had himself a fella, he was happy and all that. Mycroft kept an eye out for him--they’ve always been close, though they don’t say so. Then Sherlock’s man moved out of country.” Greg tapped his shot glass on the desktop, as if debating another, then set it aside as he continued, looking up to meet John’s eyes. “Sherlock was fine, just a little sad, but he spent more time around Mycroft to avoid the silence. And that’s how Magnussen caught sight of him, because Mycroft was part of the board investigating something he was part of.”

Greg paused again, and John leaned forward, utterly captivated by this sudden surge of truth. It felt like a little like drowning in information, and yet he wouldn’t have stopped Greg for the world.

The older man scrubbed a hand over his eyes, shaking his head wearily. “He...he was enchanted by Sherlock. Wanted him the moment he saw him. Sherlock didn’t even give him a second look--I remember him calling Magnussen the most cold-blooded being he had ever encountered.” There was another long pause, and Greg’s voice quieted even further. “Then one night Mycroft came over to my place, pale as a sheet, and told me that Magnussen had finally shown his cards. Mycroft said he had absolutely no choice--he had to convince Sherlock to accept the bloody man’s proposal.”

There was a long stillness between them, and when John found his voice, he knew he sounded utterly bewildered. “He--but--you mean, Magnussen _blackmailed_ him?”

“He blackmailed Mycroft,” Greg confirmed, so quietly John had to remain leaned forward to hear. “I don’t know what with, still, so don’t ask me--that should tell you how bloody confidential it was. Been with the man all nine of these past years, and he still can’t tell me what Magnussen had on ‘im.” Greg stopped, refilling both of their glasses and shuddering as he downed his shot.

“But Sherlock showed up at our place, furious, and said that Magnussen was courting him--asked Mycroft to get him to back off.” Greg’s mouth thinned. “Instead, Mycroft looked him in the eyes and told him that their marriage would open a lot of doors for the Holmes family, and that he needed Sherlock to accept it. That with time, hopefully, either Sherlock would learn to appreciate the man, or Mycroft would find a means of providing the same benefits while allowing Sherlock to dissolve the marriage. But to please trust him, and to accept.”

Greg gave a weak, sorry little huff of laughter. “That’s the short and sweet version. It was...I’ve never seen them row like that. But Sherlock did agree, eventually, and the next bloody week Magnussen staged a lovely, elaborate proposal. All the high society of London was thrilled.” Greg winced. “I’ve never seen Sherlock look so dead in the eyes as when he said yes.”

John’s mind filled at once with the sight of his lover’s face when he had found him bleeding out, pale and drawn and empty, and he couldn’t respond.

Greg kept talking. “You need to understand, John--Mycroft does every single thing in his power to protect Sherlock. Every day. He couldn’t keep it from happening in the first place, but he wages battle with Magnussen over every little thing that the man demands.” His eyes soften. “Having you come along, being an ally to Sherlock on the inside...Mycroft hasn’t been so relieved since the day of the wedding.”

John’s voice was a touch acidic when it emerged. “So...this being a blackmail marriage. Everyone just...knows that, and doesn’t give a damn? It’s _illegal_.”

“God, no, nobody one knows,” Greg said hurriedly, raising his hands as if to placate John from his burst of anger on Sherlock’s behalf. “ _I_ only know because Mycroft can’t hide very much from me.” He tilted his head, chewing on his lip, and then smiled sadly again. “And I’m only telling you because I know damn well how agonizing it is to feel helpless to help someone when you’re in love with them.”

John stiffened at the blunt pronouncement, and the exposure of his feelings, but Greg merely chuckled, shaking his head. “S’okay, mate, it really is. Myc knows, too--and like I said, he’s glad for you. We know Sherlock needed you. We’re just sorry...for everything else. Sorry you couldn’t have met him ten years ago.”

John looked down at his near-empty whiskey, gnawing on his own bottom lip in frustration. “...and you really don’t know what Magnussen has on them?” he asked quietly. It wasn’t too hard to believe that Mycroft would be able to beg his partner not to press him, but John’s own curiosity and anger burned too hard not to reaffirm that he wouldn’t hear whatever it was from Greg.

Greg sighed heavily, rubbing his eyes and the back of his neck with visible exhaustion. “Mycroft didn’t even mean for me to find out it was blackmail. Whatever it specifically is...all I know is, it’s personal. It wasn’t just because Myc’s in government. It’s to do with the family, and Mycroft had to look his brother in the eyes and tell him that the only way forward was for him to marry Charles. I know it kills Myc every day that he had to do that. ‘S why he’s been so bloody grateful for the way that you feel for Sherlock. You...you saved his life, coming to Appledore.”

John drained the last sips of his drink, then looked back up at the older man with tired eyes. “I can’t abandon him again,” he murmured, half a question and half a statement. Greg shook his head, pushing his chair back slowly and standing to walk around the desk, clasping John’s shoulder encouragingly.

“Please don’t.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, shit's startin' to go down, boys. The truth begins to leak...


	23. Wrong Side of Reality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “'I won’t leave him,' he promised quietly."
> 
> Chapter title from "Young and Menace" by Fall Out Boy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soundtrack:  
> -"Young and Menace" (Fall Out Boy)  
> -"Animal I Have Become" (Three Days Grace)  
> -"Hold Me Tight (Or Don’t)" (Fall Out Boy)
> 
> Well, damn, finally more than 5 pages in Google docs. That feels good.

Following his unsettling and illuminating conversation with Greg, John briefly debated returning to Appledore and just sleeping until Bill called for him--and he knew that the other man would call. Who else would he pick to relieve him at the hospital? If he asked anyone else, John would turn up anyway.

But he was too wired to sleep, and besides, the lack of any calls thus far meant that Sherlock wasn’t in danger of slipping away. Which meant that he might be awake--and John might be able to speak to him, finally.

So he returned to the hospital uncalled for. Bill was still on duty, but he merely gave John a tired look and nodded at the waiting room, where the younger man obligingly sank down to sit and wait while Bill remained at the door to Sherlock’s room. Bill’s only update was that Sherlock hadn’t woken up completely yet, which John found comfort in; if he hadn’t been here when Sherlock came out of it, he knew his guilt would have tripled.

The only news was that the doctors had finished working, and Sherlock was stable. That, at least, gave John something solid and good to hold onto as he waited.

He wasn’t watching the doors, because John didn’t entirely care who came as long as he was aware of who was in with Sherlock. As a result, he didn’t see Mycroft enter until the older Holmes brother was right beside him, sinking down into the chair beside him with a heavy sigh.

“Magnussen called me and said I should come see him, once it was sure he would pull through,” Mycroft remarked, and John felt his lip curl in derision toward his employer. “Yes,” Mycroft murmured, sounding amused, and John realized the other man had seen his expression shift. “I suspect that if Sherlock had taken a turn otherwise, he wouldn’t have notified me in time. The man does like his power plays.”

John dropped his eyes. Mycroft’s fingers were tight on the handle of his umbrella, knuckles white with tension, and when he spoke again, his voice was far less calm, his gaze unfocused and aimed toward the opposite wall. “Thank you...John. For all of yours care toward my brother. And for finding him in time.”

John remained quiet for a moment, weighing his thoughts and feelings, and Mycroft waited for him to be able to speak. “I was his personal bodyguard,” he whispered. “I failed him by not being there to stop him.” John stopped, then exhaled harshly. “I didn’t realize just how miserable he was. I should have known to look out for...” John stopped, losing his wind, then sighed and rubbed his eyes tiredly. “Murray said he stole a scalpel from his lab.”

Mycroft shook his head at once at the words John wasn’t saying, looking eerily like Greg in the gesture. His smile was sad as he looked over at the man beside him. “John...you have made an enormous difference in my brother’s life. Sherlock....” Mycroft hesitated, rubbing his fingers restlessly over the umbrella handle for a moment before continuing. “Sherlock is not a depressed or suicidal man; you have to know that, John. You would have known to worry about it from the start, if he was openly such.”

He frowned, looking over at John properly for the first time. “Did Sherlock ever tell you about his previous suicide attempt?”

The words made John pale, his breath coming short in his lungs, and he could only shake his head, eyes wide at the very thought. He stared back at Mycroft curiously, mute with shock, and the older man’s smile turned bitter. “Yes, I thought not.” He toyed with the ornate little bird’s head in the handle of his umbrella. “Well...Sherlock _is_ unhappy there, I’m afraid, but he has been...less so, since you came to Appledore. He needs you, John. I’m...I’m very grateful that he has you.”

John knew that he must have sounded as tense as he felt, but he couldn’t do anything about that. “I’m....not sure I’ll be able to remain assigned to Sherlock. After this.”

Mycroft hummed softly, shrugging. “Unless Mr. Magnussen himself questions the placement, I think it best that you remain by his side. For both your sakes. Please, John.” Only then did John register that the man was using his first name, rather than _Dr. Watson_ , and he blinked, surprised at the familiarity.

Watching John struggle with the monumental choice ahead of him, Mycroft drew a long, deep breath. “I need to tell you the whole story, I think. About the first time that...that Sherlock tried to kill himself at Appledore.”

John glanced at him in surprise, not expecting so much transparency from the elder Holmes, but Mycroft pushed on without further introduction to the story. “After two years of marriage, all of it spent in constant mind battles and outbursts of resentment, Sherlock had become more and more isolated by his own behavior. The angrier he was towards Magnussen, the more he was left alone by the man himself and by his staff, alike. Eventually, I think, it drove Sherlock a little mad.” Mycroft paused, his face pinching a little with grief. “I saw it happening, but the worse their relationship became, the less and less often Magnussen allowed me to see my brother. And before you remark on that, know that there is nothing but miles and miles of red tape between myself and that man,” he added, and John’s mouth snapped back shut. “I found myself as powerless as Sherlock was, in some regards.”

He paused, collecting himself, then went on. “Sherlock’s initial hatred of Magnussen, and his hurt and confusion toward me for encouraging the marriage and then--from his perspective--disappearing on him...and his pain from daily loneliness and....circumstances...” Mycroft looked down, and for once, John felt that the man appeared even older than he was, his eyes weary and dark. “His first attempt was the reason for the excessive rules about his lab access supervision. With no one concerned or monitoring what he got up to behind that door, Sherlock saw his chance. He ordered the supplies carefully, over a period of several month’s time, and was able to concoct a single, lethal dose of heroin.”

John gasped out loud, not having expected that, and Mycroft glanced over at him apologetically. “My brother...he had...his issues, as an adolescent. So much intelligence and energy trapped in one mortal man, it was like a supernova caught inside a cage.” John smiled sadly at the apt comparison, and Mycroft chuckled quietly. “It stopped being a problem once Jim Moriarty entered his life--for all the objections I had about that young man, he did clean Sherlock up. He kept my brother’s mind engaged. Sherlock was _well_ , when they were together.”

Mycroft’s lips tightened, and he looked down again. “But that day, two years into his life at Appledore, he made his poison and injected himself with it. When he failed to join Magnussen for dinner, the butler went to collect him, and found him lying on his lab floor, closer to death than perhaps he even came today.”

The idea of that left John cold, terrified to even imagine how he would have reacted if that had been how he had found his lover this time. But he kept his mouth firmly shut, letting Mycroft continue.

“This second attempt took another five years to build toward. And the catalyst was the loss of the thing that made him happiest--not the presence of the things that made him sad.” Mycroft looked over at John, and he didn’t need to clarify what it was that had made Sherlock “happiest.”

“It may seem contrary,” Mycroft added, softer now. “...but unless you personally do not wish to be near Sherlock anymore, then truthfully, I believe that you are the very best possible remedy for my brother.”

It occurred to John suddenly then, that this story was the full answer to his angry question to Greg earlier--the reason that Anderson had snidely said Sherlock shouldn’t have freedom in his own house. Not because he was the prize that his awful spouse had blackmailed Mycroft into surrendering, but because he had tried to end his own life while left unsupervised. And now, when his one source of comfort in recent years had tried to take itself away from him...Sherlock had surrendered to that pain and darkness once more.

But it didn’t mean that he was completely without hope.

Hesitant, feeling suffocated by his grief and his fears for Sherlock--and by his own feelings for the man--John watches his hands stop shaking in his lap at last, steady for the first time since before he had entered the lounge and found Sherlock dying. “I won’t leave him,” he promised quietly, saying the words to both himself and to Mycroft. “Ever.”

“Thank you, John,” Mycroft whispered, and there was more depth of emotion in those three words than the soldier had ever heard out of the man before.

Mycroft stood then, and John moved to follow without thinking, shaking his hand firmly. Mycroft’s mouth twisted into a sardonic smile. “I had better go,” he explained. “If Magnussen finds me here when he turns up, it will be...uncomfortable. We don’t get on,” he added, and John snorted a laugh at the utter solemnity and dryness in the joke. It was incredible, how quickly Mycroft could go from being genuinely open with his brother’s lover to being the consummately civil politician.

John hesitated, then retook his seat and spoke quietly, before Mycroft turned away. “Greg, he...told me the truth. I mean, not...not about the past attempt, but about before that. Why Sherlock’s...married.”

Mycroft looked down at him, surprised, and then sighed resignedly. “Gregory only knows part of the truth, really, but...I suppose I should be grateful that he gave you that. At least you know that much without my having let it slip, which would...violate the terms of the arrangement with Magnussen.” He drew a breath, seemingly steeling himself. “But if you need someone to blame, Dr. Watson, then it is me on whom that burden must fall; it was my failures that placed our family in a position to allow Charles Magnussen this level of control over us. And Sherlock pays the price for it every day.”

There was something about Mycroft in that moment that John had to admit, he felt only admiration for. Whatever it was that the older Holmes had to carry as his secret, it was heavy, and yet he was bearing the brunt of it himself. Even his own lover couldn't help him carry it.

He swallowed tightly. “Can’t I help at all? Isn’t there anything to be done...to free him?”

Mycroft merely shook his head. “Unfortunately, there is not. Magnussen has excellent ammunition against me, and I have my hands utterly tied both politically and socially. Sherlock is trapped for the time being; and for no other reason than that I landed in a spider’s web, and he decided that my brother was the prize he wanted for his silence and influence.”

Both men brooded over that ugly reality, and then Mycroft spoke again, his voice gentler. “But if he has you, then I believe he will survive.”

The entire thing was enough to utterly horrify John, but he could only nod in response to that statement. How could he even consider abandoning the Holmes brothers, knowing all that he did now?

He remained after Mycroft left; nothing short of the world ending would have made John budge from the hospital at that point. It was still surprising to him that Sherlock had not yet woken up, though he supposed the doctors might have had to sedate him for surgery.

Bill appeared in the doorway of a room, gesturing for a nurse, and John sat up straight, eyes narrowing. He hadn’t realized that Sherlock was in a room already, out of the OR, and the knowledge that he had been this near stung a little. As the nurse passed Bill, he spotted John, and his face softened slightly. “He’s awake for the first time,” he told John from the door; but when John started to stand, Bill just waved him back down. “He’s not entirely coherent yet. And Mr. Magnussen is on his way. Just sit tight there until he’s come and gone.”

Defeated, John sank back into the chair, and waits. Bill didn’t know, of course not, but his words still rankled. _Stay put until the husband has seen him first_. As if Magnussen deserved to even be in the same room as Sherlock.

Magnussen arrived, following a nurse past the waiting area and into the room without a greeting or more than a fleeting glance in John’s direction. Bill stepped out of the room discreetly, and through the open doorway John could hear Magnussen speaking quietly. Sherlock’s lower voice responded, and John’s stomach clenched at once with want at the sweet, familiar sound of it, though what he wanted right then he didn’t entire know--to save Sherlock? Just to touch him? To hear him speak John’s name again?

All of that, and none of it. John half wanted to run away and to forget all of this mess.

Magnussen re-emerged, and departed again without speaking to John. A moment later Bill returned from following him, handing John his work badge. “You’re back on duty,” he explained. “Just sit tight, here or preferably in the room. Call if his condition changes.” The sergeant turned, following their employer outside without another word.

John stood at once, shakily, and pocketed his badge before cross the waiting area and entering the room. He closed the door behind himself, eyes on the bed.

Sherlock turned his face to look at John, his icy eyes empty and his lips a thin line, their color pale from dehydration and blood loss.

Turning to close the blinds on the observation window, and checking that there were no camera or security measures nearby or inside the room, John crossed around the bed and moved up to stand at Sherlock’s side. He leaned down, no hesitation or uncertainty in the motons, and kissed Sherlock’s lips firmly.

Sherlock instantly stiffened at the contact, but he didn’t twist his face away or protest. His arms moved, bandaged wrists tugging at the padded restraints keeping them strapped to the bed frame, as if trying to touch John’s face. As if he wanted to pull him closer.

When John finally broke the kiss, Sherlock’s eyes were wide and glassy, staring up at him with more life than the doctor had seen in them in days. “Why...did you do that?”

John exhaled out the breath he’d been holding, and smiled sadly down at the younger man. “Because I’m not giving up on you--on us--again. Not ever.”

Sherlock looked wary but hopeful, as if he couldn’t quite believe it despite wanting to, and sucked in a shallow breath of his own. “You promised me once before,” he pointed out quietly, his voice thready with nerves.

John nodded, knowing that his face was clouding with grief. “I know that I did. And then I got scared, and I did the wrong thing. The very worst thing that i could have done to you. But I’m going to make it up to you, love, and I promise....I _swear_. I won’t fail you again.”

Sherlock held his gaze for a long, silent moment, seemingly judging what he found in John’s expression, and finding it sincere. He nodded, some of the tension bleeding out of his body. “Alright,” he whispered back. “I trust you.”

Relieved, John sank into the chair next to the bed, staring hungrily over at Sherlock as if he couldn’t get enough of the sight of him--and really, that was so. It was incomprehensible, how close they had come to him never seeing those eyes gazing back at him--at all, let alone with the depth of feeling and need that he could see reflecting back at him right then. John didn’t think he could have survived without ever seeing that again.

His phone beeped in his pocket, and he tugged it out, blinking at Clara’s name on his screen. _How’re you feeling?_

John chewed on his lip, wondering what she would say about this, and put his phone away, not yet ready to address that complex issue. He looked back up, smiling slightly when he found Sherlock still watching him, as if there was nothing else in the world he found interesting.

“What did he say when he was in here?” John asked quietly, and Sherlock didn’t need him to clarify who he was referring to.

The dark-haired man’s lip curled. “He asked if this was going to become a recurring event every several years. And if we needed marriage counseling, which I suspect he thought was quite witty on his part.”

John snorted, giving his lover a wry grin. “Oh, a marriage counselor would have a field day with you two. Course, they’d also be calling 999 within three sentences out of you.”

Sherlock smirked at that, and the expression--the life and humor behind those bottomless eyes--hit John like a punch in the gut. He hadn’t realized just how desperately he had missed Sherlock. How empty and hollow his world had become without the spark of Sherlock’s love and unique personality brightening it.

His eyes dropped to Sherlock’s wrists, secured with only inches of mobility away from the railings on the bed. Sherlock followed his gaze, and his smile turned apologetic. “They’ll heal fast,” he murmured, and John met his gaze again, feeling tears prick behind his eyes. Sherlock looked pained. “John, it wasn’t your fault.”

The older man shook his head, swiping his fingertips across his eyes. “I’m never going to forget that moment, you know. I don’t think I’ve ever been as scared in my life. Hell, I’ve faced live bombs with less terror.”

Sherlock shuddered at the words, and John stood again, moving to take one of his hands firmly in both of his own. “I’m going to save you,” he whispered, his tone hardening. “I need you to know that, Sherlock. I’m going to get you out of there.” John glanced at the restraints, nearly tempted to just unwrap them, to find some clothes for Sherlock and to spirit him away from the hospital. To get them far, far away from this place forever.

Sherlock’s voice was just as quiet, edged with amusement, but there was also an undercurrent of solemnity. “We can’t do that, John. You would never forgive yourself if he went after Harry and Clara to punish you. And I couldn't risk Mycroft and Gregory.” His fingers flexed, squeezing John’s hands back as best as he could. “We’re going to be alright though, you and me. Won’t we?”

John nodded at once, raising one hand to stroke Sherlock’s hair back, and his heart somersaulted in his chest as the younger man leaned into the touch, looking five years younger just from contentment at the contact. “You and me,” he agreed, his voice hoarse. “Always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope it's clear why John can't just steal his boy from the hospital...believe me, if it was risk-free, he would have.


	24. Can We Dance Through an Avalanche

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Well, he’s not dead, and he’s got you looking out for him."
> 
> Chapter title from "Dancing With Our Hands Tied" by Taylor Swift.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soundtrack:  
> -"Getaway Car" (Taylor Swift)  
> -"Emperor’s New Clothes" (Panic! at the Disco)  
> -"Dancing With Our Hands Tied" (Taylor Swift)
> 
> WELL DAMN, GUYS. YOUR LOVE DID THIS. Seriously. More details edged in, and I realized that I wanted to save The Climactic Confrontation for its very own chapter, so y'all earned yourselves a 26th chapter! XD

Sherlock’s return to Appledore, a week later, was shockingly anticlimactic. John had been expecting--well, anything. _Something_. Any kind of real reaction from the household staff when their employer’s husband was released from the hospital.

But when the car pulled up into the gravel driveway, only Bill and Wilkes were standing outside; the sergeant greeted them with a nod as John assisted Sherlock out of the backseat. It was nice to have the excuse to touch him openly, gripping Sherlock’s arm gently as he supported the weaker man out of the vehicle, but John couldn’t help his bewilderment.

Bill smiled tightly at them as they reached the steps. “You need help getting upstairs, John?” he asked quietly, and his use of John’s first name was somewhat comforting in its familiarity.

He shook his head, staying still as Wilkes removed Sherlock’s coat with surprising care, given his apparent general dislike for the younger man. The butler moved ahead of them into the house, and John led him inside, guiding Sherlock upstairs alone.

They bypassed the lounge entirely, going straight through the hallway and into Sherlock’s room. The dark-haired man climbed into his bed gratefully, looking back up at John with exhausted eyes as he sank back into his dark silk bedding. “I expect Mrs. Hudson will be along to try and force-feed me some soup...it’s her norm when I’m ill at all. Do you mind persuading her to leave it out in the lounge? She always fusses when I’m down, but right now I...just want to sleep.”

John hesitated at that, wondering if Mrs. Hudson would turn all of her concern in his direction, but he didn’t want to press Sherlock right them. He glanced back down the hallway, checking to be sure that no one was watching from beyond the lounge before he reached out, stroking Sherlock’s hair back from his pale face.

“Yeah, I’ll get her to leave it,” he promised, pausing as Sherlock smiled gratefully, relaxing under his touch. John inhaled slowly, pursing his lips. “Sherlock, I need you to promise me that you meant it, and that you’re going to trust me. That you won’t--do anything, like that, again.”

The younger man merely snorted, reaching up to catch John’s fingers fearlessly and brushing them past his lips before releasing his hand, remaining cautious. “I promise, John. I know you’d blame yourself, no matter that it wouldn’t be your fault in any way--and Mycroft, of course. I can’t--I wouldn’t, put him through it a third time.”

“Don’t put any of us through it again,” John returned firmly. “It isn’t only he and I who care, you know. There’s Mrs. Hudson, obviously, and there’s Molly. And Greg--it might have started out only being for Mycroft’s sake, but he still loves you.” He ignored the eye roll he got for those words, going to the unused desk in the corner and dragging the chair over to the bedside, sinking down to sit. “He does, Sherlock. You should have seen him--when Bill ordered me out of the hospital for a turn, I went to the Yard. Greg was just as heartbroken as I was.”

Sherlock sighed, turning his eyes upward toward the canopy above his bed. “I dislike words like that. Greg is such a...steady, solid type. Imagining him distraught over something so--”

“If you say _trivial_ or anything like that, I will smack you as soon as you’re strong enough to take it,” John interrupted him, smiling tightly. “I walked into his pub with your blood all over my shirt, looking as if I’d just walked off of a battlefield worse than any in bloody Afghanistan. He had to choose not to call his own partner because he couldn’t let on that he knew anything he shouldn’t. It hurt him to know that you were hurt, Sherlock.”

Sherlock frowned, turning his face on the pillow to look back at John. There was an indescribable mixture of sadness, regret, and amusement in his gaze, and the unconventional combination of emotions was such a _Sherlock_ thing to see that John almost smiled for real.

”I won’t minimize the decision that I made, and I won’t be dismissive of Greg’s affection for me via my brother again. Better?” Sherlock asked, and it was so genuinely teasing. John had to chuckle.

“Yes,” he confirmed. “I appreciate the effort, dear.”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose, giving his companion a look that was properly reminiscent of their long weeks spent in the lounge. “If you’re going to resort to pet names, at least use something less trite and generic.”

“Yes, love,” John replied at once, and as he had anticipated, that brought a flash of mild pink right into Sherlock’s cheeks. He grinned, adding a wink for good measure as Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the soldier in playful reprimand.

* * *

It wasn’t only the staff who seemed to have no open reaction to Sherlock’s week in the hospital, or the fact that he was sporting bandages from his wrists to his elbows that Molly came upstairs every day--every few hours, in fact--to check on. John knew that it was never appropriate to punish someone, per se, for suicide attempts, but he had expected _some_ kind of consequences or aftermath. Some sign that things wouldn’t be permitted to continue as they had, in case it led to a repeat of circumstances.

But nothing changed. He returned to his bunker at the end of the day, gut clenched in fear that he wouldn’t be admitted back upstairs the next morning, now that Sherlock was safely recovering, and back behind the glass walls of the cage that magnussen kept him in.

And yet, at 8am, he checked in, traded greetings with Bill, and found himself left unmonitored and with no orders preventing him from going to Sherlock.

It took three days for John to work up enough agitation to confront this, and he left Sherlock eating lunch with Molly and Mrs. Hudson for company while John went downstairs to the employees’ break room. Bill looked up from his meal, nodded at the younger man as he poured them both a coffee. “Afternoon, John. Surprised you’re in here for lunch.”

“I wanted to speak to you,” John explained, accepting the coffee. “I’m a bit confused, to be honest. Is...is my placement not changing?”

Bill paused with his mug half-raised to his mouth, and arched his eyebrows. “Did you want it to? Seemed you and Mr. Holmes were back to good form, after whatever tiff you were in. I figured you would be happier being close at hand.”

“I am,” John assured him hurriedly, frowning. “It’s not--I don’t want to change, not at all. Everything is...okay, now. But...I would have thought that Mr. Magnussen would implement some new rules, or something like that. Boundaries, to make sure that...nothing happens again. Especially....considering Sherlock’s history,” he added, a touch cautiously, in case he wasn’t supposed to let on what he knew.

Bill’s mouth tightened, but he merely shrugged. “He hasn’t said a word to me about changing anything, and it would go to me before coming to you. Despite this situation, Mr. Holmes has been better by far since you were assigned to him--so neither his husband, nor me as his head of security, see any cause to remove that dynamic.” He tapped his coffee mug on the table thoughtfully. “John, do you know his reasoning, this time? I’m at a loss, myself. He seemed to be doing much better.”

“He was,” John agreed quietly. “And he is now, again. He’s going to be fine. He’s....he’s very sorry about this one.”

Bill snorted, but nodded after a moment. “Well, he’s not dead, and he’s got you looking out for him. Best I can hope for, I suppose.”

John smiled weakly, draining his coffee and looking down. “Yeah. Suppose that’s so."

* * *

The thought of Sherlock’s weekly or bi-weekly dinners with Magnussen didn’t occur to either him or John until Wilkes appeared at the lounge doorway later that week. There was a distinctive lack of the usual mockery in his expression as he informed them that Mr. Magnussen was waiting, but John’s stomach still turned over at the news.

They were both quiet for a moment, but finally Sherlock began pushing himself gingerly up from the loveseat. “Well, I guess...that’s that.”

John didn’t move until Sherlock had taken a step and then had to stop at once, one hand flying back to the sofa armrest to stabilize himself and his fale paling a little. On his feet in an instant, John reached out to catch him, feeling Sherlock’s fingers grip his shoulder back tightly. “Alright, love, I’ve got it,” John murmured, resituating them so that he could half-lead, half almost carry Sherlock’s weight. “We could...send Wilkes back, say you’re too weak.”

“No,” Sherlock said quietly. “Postponing is never wise. Just...come with me.”

It was the last thing that John wanted to do, if it meant being in the same room as both Sherlock and his husband; but he could hardly refuse his lover, especially when he was so blatantly weak. It was doubtful that Sherlock would make it across the wings by himself.

When they entered the dining room, Sherlock shifted imperceptibly, a stiffness sliding into his shoulders that made it marginally harder for John to support him. But he couldn’t blame Sherlock, especially when he felt the cool weight of Magnussen’s gaze the moment it moved to land on them.

“Sherlock,” he murmured in greeting, rising from his seat. “I didn’t realize that you were still unable to walk independently. Perhaps you need a few more days of rest.”

“It’s fine,” Sherlock said quietly, and John bit his tongue, not daring to defy both men by interjecting that he quite disagreed with that assessment. Nothing about this was fine, but he didn’t get to speak for Sherlock. If his lover believed that he was prepared to face his spouse, then John would stand in his corner. “Dr. Watson was gracious enough to assist me.”

“So I see.” Magnussen nodded slightly at John, resuming his seat as the doctor carefully guided Sherlock to his, and drew the chair for him. Once he was sure that Sherlock was settled, John straightened and started to retreat--only to halt as Magnussen spoke behind him. “Oh, do stay, Dr. Watson. There is more than enough food for three, and I’m sure Sherlock will need your help again when he retires for the evening, won’t you, my dear?”

John hesitated, glancing back at Sherlock, who blinked back at his husband before looking back to John, and nodding shallowly. “Stay.”

The previous time that John had joined their dinner, the awkwardness had been a physical presence, an invisible tension that John ignored solely through the power of knowing the lovely secret that he and Sherlock were sharing.

It didn’t feel anything like that, now. Even knowing that he and Sherlock were alright, that they weren’t going to give up on one another ever again--John only felt fear.

“How are your arms, Sherlock?” Magnussen asked, slicing his roast delicately as he glanced up over the top rim of his glasses at the man sitting opposite him. “Dr. Hooper has been emailing me brief memos each day, but it’s more or less consistent positive news--healing well, normal pace. That doesn’t cover anything from your perspective, of course.”

Sherlock set his utensils down, and John watched the faint tremor that rippled through the younger man’s hands as he brushed his right fingers over the edge of the bandage wrapped around his left wrist, as if adjusting its position. John would need to check that it was still secure when they returned to Sherlock’s rooms. The last thing he wanted was for an encounter with Magnussen to lead to Sherlock having stitches torn loose.

“They are healing fast,” Sherlock affirmed, his voice only just loud enough to carry clearly. “Dr. Hooper said today that they may even have minimal scars.”

Magnussen smiled benignly. “Well, that is good. Scars aren’t particularly a bad thing, overall, but I suppose they would be an unpleasant reminder. They certainly won’t detract from your aesthetic appeal in any way.”

John stared at the untouched meal on his own ornate plate, wondering how this man could be so simultaneously civil and yet outright despicable. He cut his gaze sideways, but Sherlock wasn’t looking his way. John sighed inwardly, resolving to take the next available opportunity to kiss Sherlock’s arms, and to promise him that not a single mark on his skin would ever detract from how beautiful John found him, or how he felt for him.

* * *

“Well, that was...something,” John remarked tactfully, once they were safely back inside the lounge. Sherlock was paler than he had been all day, even after the hearty meal they’d had, and he sank into the loveseat with an exhausted air.

“It always is,” he replied, resuming his earlier fidgeting with the edge of the bandage, and John tsked softly, moving to crouch in front of him.

“Here, stop that,” he chided, holding out his hands. “Give me your arms, love, you’re going to tear something.” Sherlock surrendered his hands with a faint smile, watching John as he tested the cotton carefully, making sure nothing underneath had slipped or been damaged, and that the bandage itself was still in place.

“Will I survive, Doctor?” Sherlock asked softly, and when John glanced up at him, he had his usual cheeky smile in place.

“You’re going to flourish,” he replied, giving Sherlock’s fingers a quick little squeeze before he retreated back to the armchair across from Sherlock; there were cameras in this room, watching them with the weight of human eyes.

His phone beeped, and John sighed as he checked it; he was long overdue for his evening checkout. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he promised, standing. “Do you need help to bed?”

Sherlock smirked, picking up a nearby book with care for his wrists, and nodded dismissively at the older man. “No, I’ll manage for myself. I can see that possessive little gleam in your eyes; I suspect if you helped me into bed right now, even duty and common sense wouldn’t protect us.”

John snorted at that, but there was no denying it; he was tightly wound, and he was aching inside to show Sherlock some gesture of ownership--a kiss, a touch, anything. “Good night,” he finally managed, walking backwards until he was at the doorway, and had to turn around in order to proceed safely. Sherlock’s eyes remained on his until they were broken by John passing around the corner.

At the top of the stairs, John paused, the itchy and unpleasant sensation of being watched by the cameras not alleviating. Looking up, John nearly missed a pace on the steps when he realized that Charles Magnussen was standing at his bedroom door, head tilted to one side and pale eyes fixed on John from behind his glinting glasses.

When their gazes met, Magnussen dipped his head in a small half-nod, and John drew on every ounce of strength that he possessed in order to nod politely, firmly back, before he dropped his eyes, and continued on down toward the front door, and toward his own rooms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for the penultimate chapter include...  
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> Intense drama, angst, and somebody dies *gasp*


	25. Karma's Going to Come Collect Her Debt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What have you done?”  
> “What I had to.”
> 
>  
> 
> Chapter title comes from the song "Wolf in Sheep's Clothing" by Set it Off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soundtrack:  
> -"My Songs Know What You Did in the Dark" (Fall Out Boy)  
> -"Bitter Taste" (TDG)  
> -"Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing" (Set It Off)
> 
> 1) Guys, PLEASE, if nothing else on the whole ST, listen to "Wolf in Sheep's Clothing." This song FUELED my take on John in this story. This song WAS John and Magnussen in this entire chapter. :3
> 
> 2) fuck I can't even describe to you how emotional this was to write

**Friday, 6:13pm**

_“Sherlock--don’t shoot, fuck!--Sherlock, what’ve--what have you done?”_

_“What I had to.”_

* * *

**Friday Morning**

When John walked into the foyer at 7:55am, Bill was waiting at the base of the stairs with his tablet. He looked up as John entered and closed the great glass door behind himself, nodding in warm greeting at his friend. “Morning, John. I’m checking you in--go on upstairs and with Mr. Holmes. After lunch at 1, Mr. Magnussen wanted to see you.”

 _Grand_.

John nodded, managing to conceal any outward negative emotions toward that information. “Right. Thanks.” He took the stairs two at a time, turning left with relief to head into Sherlock’s wing for the hour, and stepped into the sunny lounge with a smile.

Sherlock looked up from his sketchbook, cocking his head as he evaluated John’s expression. “What is it?” he asked, arching his eyebrows. “You look...disquieted.”

John shrugged, sinking into his chair and drumming his fingers silently on the plush, padded armrests. “No, I’m just...I’ve been summoned for a meeting across the hall, later today” he said, a touch dryly, and Sherlock made a face at once. “Yeah, same,” John said, smirking despite himself. “S’alright, I’ll manage. Probably the same as the other times we’ve had one-on-ones...checking how I’m doing working with you.”

“Mm, yes, I am the most frightful assignment in this place,” Sherlock agreed idly, turning his eyes back to his sketchbook. “How you’ve stayed sane is beyond me.”

“It’s certainly required having some...outlets, for pent-up tension,” John murmured back, and he revelled in the way that Sherlock immediately pinked up again, keeping his gaze resolutely on whatever it was that he was drawing even as he smiled coyly.

It was genuinely liberating, being back in sync with Sherlock like this. Hours passed in such different ways, depending on how things were between them; when they had been getting to know one another, time was how it had always been. When they had been broken up, one hour felt like months, even years. But like this--back to trading knowing looks and smiling at nothing and feeling the air warm between them like physical caressess--hours passed in minutes, and John found himself daydreaming about their next outing, hoping that they could slip away back to Baker Street tomorrow.

Mrs. Hudson joined them at noon, pushing a trolley ahead of her with more food than they would normally indulge in over lunch. John hid a smile as she fussed tenderly over Sherlock, who clearly allowed it for her sake. He even obliged her on her motherly insistence that he eat a whole sandwich, the home-baked chips, and a full bowl of chicken soup.

John had to admit, he was surprised to see so much food go into his lover in one sitting, but he couldn’t deny he was pleased, as well. If happiness meant an increased appetite for Sherlock, then he might actually see some real weight slide onto the younger man’s frame.

For a moment, John’s mind flickered away from the present, to some fantasized alternate future. Some world where they had met another way, and they could live together at Baker Street, popping down for tea and meals with Mrs. Hudson, perhaps having Molly, and Mycroft and Greg, over for holidays. Sherlock could play his music all day--or, hell, go anywhere and do anything that he liked. He could work a bloody job that would exercise that infinite brain of his.

They could spend entire Saturdays in bed, if they wanted to.

He forced himself to refocus on reality, laughing softly as Mrs. Hudson pressed another half sandwich into his own hands with a stern, “And you as well, young man, don’t think I’ll allow you to skimp on food.”

As his wristwatch reported one o'clock drawing nearer, John found himself feeling a little more bold than usual. After Mrs. Hudson had left them alone once more, John stood up, turning to cross the lounge and hallway and enter the bathroom off of Sherlock’s room, washing his hands for lack of any other reason to be in there.

As he had hoped, within a few minutes the floorboards creaked, and when John turned his head, Sherlock was standing in the bathroom doorway, eyeing the older man with a sweet blend of curiosity and hunger. “I think you’re overestimating the range of strenuous activity I might be sufficiently recovered for,” he murmured teasingly. “That, or the amount of time that we can risk being out of view of the cameras.”

“Just one kiss,” John promised, turning to step closer to him. Sherlock’s eyes widened, his pupils dilating visibly, and John grinned at his success before he reached for his lover. Cupping Sherlock’s face between his palms, John leaned in to claim his lips, doing his best to channel a month’s worth of emotions and need--had it really come to only a month’s time, since he had been so stupid as to think he could live without Sherlock in his life?-- into this one single kiss.

Sherlock whimpered, the sound so raw and perfect as it caught between their mouths that John nearly lost his sanity right there.

He had never considered himself so basic as to suggest that going without sexual relief could cause excessive stress on a man’s body, but in that moment--John had to admit, he could believe it. The need coursing through him, the heat and longing that were stinging in every nerve ending, was enough to make John almost want to say _fuck the consequences_ and fling Sherlock back across his enormous bed, five feet away from them.

John’s watch beeped the five-minutes-till alert, saving him from making any such drastic mistake, and John growled quietly as he stilled, and slowly broke the kiss. Sherlock’s eyes were hooded and dark, his lips plump and swollen and far more pink than John had seen them all week, and it slid through him like ice how painfully he wanted-- _needed_ \--the other man.

“I’ll be back,” he murmured, and Sherlock exhaled raggedly, giving him a teasing, narrowed-eyed look.

“Cruel,” he muttered, grinning despite what he said, and John merely chuckled, patting his cheek gently before he turned to stroll back through the hallway and lounge, and across the house.

Like the first day that he had come to interview with Mr. Magnussen, John felt the distinct difference in the atmosphere as he stepped off of the landing and into the hall leading toward Magnussen’s study. It was so much darker here, windowless and dry, with nothing to break the monotony--not even a portrait or a mirror, or a table with flowers on it.

He reached the large wooden doors, paused to take stock of himself, then straightened his posture into a firm soldier’s stance and rapped his knuckles on the door.

“Enter.”

Stepping inside, John closed the door behind himself, then stopped respectfully. “You wanted to see me, sir?”

“Yes, good, Dr. Watson.” Charles Magnussen looked up, nodding at him and waving for him to approach before he finished making a note in his ledger, then closed it and slid it to one side of the desk, and placed his pen neatly back into its holder.

“I’m sorry for putting you on the spot at dinner the other evening; unlike the night that I invited you formally, that was rather spontaneous, and I’m sure a touch uncomfortable for you. Sergeant Murray’s assessments of your performance--and my own observations--show you to be a man of routine and structure.” Magnussen sat back in his leather chair, folding his hands in his lap. “I know you were technically off-duty, too, so I rather cornered you.”

John blinked, wondering why the other man was constantly apologizing for placing him in close situations with Sherlock. “I didn’t mind, sir. I know that--Sherlock was still quite weak at that point, so I’d say it’s part of my responsibility to help him around the house.”

Magnussen’s lips curled, and on anyone else’s face it would have been called a smile. “Yes, I suppose that’s fair. A doctor through and through--admirable of you. It’s not as if I hired you with the expectation that you would serve as a caretaker for someone in Sherlock’s...predicament.” He leaned forward, placing his interlaced fingers on top of the desk. “A shame, that you had to experience him going through one of these...phases. And that you were the one to find him. I expect that was rather traumatic.”

John hadn’t a clue where this was going, but he didn’t let that show. “It’s fine, sir. I’ve seen much worse. I was just...glad I found him in time.”

“Yes, there is that little blessing.” Magnussen unlocked his hands, fingertips tapping silently on the sleek wood. “Considering his chosen method, I was intrigued by his timing. I suppose he was, in part, hoping that you would return to his rooms in time to save him.”

This was beginning to resemble a military interrogation, reading between the lines, but John didn’t know what Magnussen was playing at, so he didn’t let his eyes narrow with hostility, as badly as he wanted to. “I couldn’t say, sir. I haven’t wanted to press him to discuss his thoughts on the matter, out of professional courtesy. If he wishes me to know, he’ll volunteer the information.'

“He would, wouldn’t he,” Magnussen agreed, tilting his head as if trying to re-evaluate John from a different angle. “He trusts you so very deeply. Eight years, and I’ve never seen him attach to anyone so quickly or so intently. Aside, I suppose, from Mrs. Hudson, but...that has a unique history.” Magnussen shifted again, and the lamplight reflected off of his glasses, briefly concealing his eyes from John. “You, however...it seemed as if he was determined to connect with you.”

A warning bell went off in the back of John’s mind, red flags springing to full mast, but he remained still, gazing intently back at his employer and hoping that any concern he felt was merely stemming from the twisted triangle that he was in with the other man. There was no reason to believe that Magnussen was suggesting anything more. Or that he knew anything.

“I think...that Mr. Holmes and I are very compatible, as friends,” John said delicately, praying that he wasn’t throwing himself right over the line as he spoke. “Perhaps he...sensed that, when I first arrived. He is alone quite often.” _Danger, dangerous area, retreat..._ “I suppose he...needed a friend.”

Magnussen outright chuckled at that, and there was no kindness in the sound. “A very particular sort of friendship, then, considering that I allowed him Mrs. Hudson, and I never intervened to prevent his close bond with Dr. Hooper. I believed I was meeting any needs that might have risen from loneliness, but it seems...I was mistaken. It seems only you could have fulfilled what Sherlock...really wanted.”

The warning bells grew louder, and John inhaled nervously, the sound a little more audible than he would have liked for it to be. “...Sir?”

Magnussen nodded slowly, as if John’s responses were answering questions without the doctor knowing what was being asked. “I am curious, though, what transpired between you to push him into that brief...relapse, in temperment. Were you trying to be noble, Captain Watson? Was it for his protection, or your own?”

John’s stomach dropped out of his abdomen and down into his toes, and his heart iced over inside of his chest. A moment ago the study had felt as dark and stuffy as it always did; now, suddenly, the air felt thin and insufficient, and it seemed as if he was standing above some great height, seconds from tumbling to his death, light-headed and unable to move. The shift from _Doctor_ to _Captain_ could not have been more condemning, and John was suddenly agonizingly reminded of how it had felt, while he was abroad, to never know if he was caught in the scopes of a sniper rifle or if he was momentarily safe.

“You know,” he said, his voice tight and quiet, and Magnussen snorted, looking almost human for the first time as he rolled his eyes.

“Of course I know,” he replied, somehow sounding dismissive and cruel in the same breath. “I have since the beginning, Captain. Really, now--even if there were not cameras covering every centimeter of my home and property, you weren’t in the least bit subtle, were you? It would take a uniquely unintelligent man--which I am not--to miss the way that my poor husband fell so helplessly and hopelessly for his little toy soldier.”

John had never experienced reprimand or formal discipline during his military career, but he had to imagine that the shame and guilt of such a thing would feel similar to how gutted and afraid he felt right then.

“Why did you allow it?” he asked hoarsely, struggling not to let his voice fracture. “Why let it go on so long?”

Magnussen’s voice dripped amusement and dismissal, his tone alone answering the question just as efficiently as the words did. “It hardly made a difference to my routine. Really, if anything, it only provided me with more ammunition. Sherlock became so desperate to keep you, from day one, that it simply made him more pliable to me than he has been in the entirety of our marriage. Frankly, it’s been...quite hilarious.”

He shrugged, standing and moving away from his desk to pour a glass of brandy. John felt rooted to his chair, unable to even stand and remain level with his enemy as Magnussen looked back at him, smirking.

“As for you...well, Captain, you are expendable for me. You won’t always be employed here; and one day, Sherlock will lose you once more, for one reason or another. More nobility on your part, perhaps, or simply due to the inevitable passing of time.” He took a long sip, swirling the amber liquid in his glass thoughtfully. “You tried to break it off with him, I imagine, and that prompted this latest attempt at his own life. But here you are, back again, giving him so much hope that he has some semblance of control over anything.”

Magnussen resumed his seat, staring John down with nothing but smug self-assurance in his eyes. “Either way, someday when you are long gone from Appledore, Captain...I will simply have an even more tamed Sherlock at my side. A cruel east wind placed that beautiful creature into my hands, and I am perfectly well-equipped to ensure that I can hold onto him forever.” He finished the brandy and set it aside. “Sentiment is weakness, Watson, and you have torn that man’s heart apart and rendered him completely vulnerable to his fate.”

In all of his life, John had never found himself as repulsed as he was in that moment, confronted by the older man’s callousness. He almost couldn’t breathe, bewildered by the honesty and viciousness being exhibited--and yet Magnussen was gazing back at him so impassively, so unafraid of how John might react to what he was saying.

“You can’t honestly believe that you can keep him forever,” he finally choked out, his horror bleeding into his voice. There was no conceivable way to hide it, not now. “You can’t--you can’t _own_ him against his will, this way. Not for the rest of his life.”

Magnussen chuckled, opening an folder on his desk and holding up a document; John barely had to glance at it before he recognized it as a marriage certificate, dated roughly eight years before and signed tidily at the bottom by Magnussen’s familiar signature, as well as Sherlock’s, his handwriting small and looping and beautiful.

“I’m afraid I can, by his own consent,” Magnussen replied, putting the license away again. “That dear boy signed his freedom over to me willingly. And I’ll certainly never give him up.”

At last the spell trapping John in his seat broke, and he stood, the movement pushing his chair back a little on the dark burgundy carpet. He had never registered before just how much the color scheme in this room resembled various shades of blood.

Magnussen watched him without concern, arching his eyebrows as John stared back at him, horrified and mute. “Go back to our boy, now,” his employer murmured, cool and dismissive. “Tell him or don’t, but rest assured...no matter your promises to my husband, he will never be yours, Captain Watson. Not truly. It will always be my home and my bed that he remains bound to.”

John wasn’t sure if he was going to be ill, or if he was about to leap over the desk between them and strangle the man with his bare hands. Logic alone stopped him; just as there had been too many risk factors to spirit Sherlock away from the hospital, so was there no chance of his leaving alive if he attacked Magnussen. He was helpless.

“You’re dismissed, Watson,” Magnussen repeated, and that cruel smirk was back on his lips. “I’ve finished speaking with you.”

John needed to see Sherlock.

He twisted on his heel, spinning away from Magnussen’s sickening smile and stalking from the room. The instant the study door was closed behind him, John nearly ran, crossing the landing again with no concern for the startled noise a maid let out as he rushed past, returning to the lounge and only stopping when he saw Sherlock, once more seated on his loveseat with a novel.

Sherlock looked up, and his eyes widened in shock and alarm at the sight of John’s face. He stood at once, the book dropping to the floor. “John, what on earth did--”

“We’re leaving,” John said harshly, breathing far heavier than his brief rush would justify. “We’re going, Sherlock. I don’t give a damn how, I am getting you out of this place.”

Sherlock’s expression spasmed, conflicting between hope and agreement, and mild terror. “John, what did he say to you?”

“It doesn’t matter.” _Oh, it mattered, it mattered so much it hurt._ “I’m not leaving you in this house another night. We are leaving.” He stepped forward, grabbing both of Sherlock’s hands in his and lifting them to press a kiss to his knuckles. Sherlock gasped, half-jerking away and cutting his gaze toward the corner cameras, but John held tight. “Don’t. Don’t fret, just--say yes, tell me you’ll come with me.”

The younger man’s voice sounded strangled, confused and lost. “I--of course I would, John, but why--how--?”

“We just have to,” John whispered. “Tonight. I--if you pack anything, they’ll see, just--”

“I don’t need any of it,” Sherlock interrupted, his voice marginally stronger. He was clearly bewildered, but John’s aggressive certainty seemed to be convincing him. “Just you.”

Somehow, that cut through the panic and white noise. John paused, raising his eyes to meet his lover’s, and finally he nodded. “Okay. Yes, okay. We--tonight. We’re going tonight.”

Sherlock tugged on his hands, moving him to sit down and then going back to his couch and watching John worriedly. “John, whoever was watching the cameras...”

“Doesn’t matter,” John said shortly. “Just trust me.” He could see that Sherlock wanted to press, and John deflated a little, rubbing his hands over his face. “It’s okay, love,” he murmured, his tone apologetic, and Sherlock frowned, but sat back. “Just...let’s...be normal. For now,” he said, leaning forward to pick up a book without looking at it.

He had no idea what he was doing. Logic said to reign it in, and hope that no one from the security team had seen him kissing Sherlock’s hands. He couldn’t give a damn if Magnussen saw it; that obviously no longer mattered. But it would be harder to explain it to Bill.

They should plan this better. He needed to think this through, he needed to wait until their next outing, assuming Magnussen allowed one. It was too dangerous to go now.

But the thought of leaving Sherlock in this house, in proximity to his husband for one more night--the thought that at any moment when he wasn’t there, Magnussen might come for Sherlock again, might coerce him into any number of things by toying with his emotions and using John to manipulate him more--he couldn’t stand the idea of letting the man even look at Sherlock again, let alone touch him.

It was reckless, it was stupid, it was not going to work, and yet John could not even think of not trying.

Time passed, and John didn’t know if it was minutes or hours. The light was changing outside, and John found that he did not want the sun to set on Sherlock inside of this glass prison. “Sherlock.” The younger man looked up from his composition book, eyes worried. “I’m going to check out, and go pack my things. Come downstairs in thirty minutes, and go get something to eat. Take it to the front steps to eat. I will call a car, and...well, I’m going to bloody kidnap you.”

Sherlock made a face that might have been a smile, had it been less tight and pained. “It’s not kidnapping when the victim wants to go, John. But...are you certain?”

 _No._ “Yes.” He wasn’t certain, but he had to. They had to run; he had to save this man.

“Alright.” Sherlock’s voice was whisper-soft. “Go, John. I’ll see you soon.”

John nodded, standing and smiling at his lover once more before he turned, leaving the lounge and padding downstairs. Bill wasn’t in the security room, and the men at the monitors said nothing to suggest that they had seen anything questionable earlier. John clocked out, his hands shaking, and then left the house, returning to his rooms and quickly packing his things into the few suitcases and bags that he owned.

It was nearly six; he knew that Mrs. Hudson would be retiring for the evening, so if Sherlock had gotten food, he was likely outside now. John moved his things to the doorway, ready to grab them and rush them into the car. Then he went outside and walked around to check the front of the house.

Sherlock wasn’t there.

John hesitated, his eyes narrowing as he watched the sun sinking out of sight behind the house. He needed to act. Returning to his rooms, John tucked his handgun into the back of his trousers, then pulled his jacket on and went back to the house.

The moment he entered the front door, John knew already that he had failed. Sherlock stood at the bottom of the stairs, blocked from the front doors by three members of the security team, who were looking to Bill where he stood in the security room doorway. All three had their weapons drawn.

John stopped walking as Bill looked toward him, raising his eyebrows. “Bill, what’s--?”

“Sergeant Murray.”

John closed his eyes for a heartbeat as the voice rang out, feeling as if the world had sunk out from underneath his feet. The earth was gone, and all that remained was black space for him to fall through forever, unable to catch himself, unable to save Sherlock.

Charles Magnussen appeared at the top at the stairs, his suit pristine and his expression both smug and cold. “Please, bring Captain Watson and my husband to my study.” He turned away, then paused, smirking. “Oh, and mind Captain Watson--I believe he may resist your efforts.”

Bill looked bewildered, but he was too good of a soldier to refuse direct orders. The security members were already moving, and Sherlock gave John a tense look before complying, allowing them to more or less herd him up the steps after his spouse. Bill stepped toward John, his expression wordlessly asking if he did need a show of force, and John shook his head slightly before he turned to follow, feeling Bill move in to place behind him. Like he was some sort of prisoner.

Entering the study, John moved toward Sherlock immediately. His men moved forward uncertainly to intercept him, but Magnussen interjected softly. “Let him.” They retreated, moving back behind Bill, and John moved to Sherlock’s side, giving his lover the closest to a reassuring look that he could manage before he turned his gaze toward Magnussen.

“I asked Sergeant Murray to turn the audio back onto the cameras in the northern lounge, this afternoon,” Magnussen said in a pleasant tone, moving over to his laptop and slowly spinning it around to show them the screen. John flinched, instantly understanding, while Sherlock’s eyes widened and his lips parted in horror as he looked at the evidence. “I also had him add an additional camera for me a few weeks ago, just to be sure of our security.”

In the left corner, the footage replayed a ten second loop repeatedly, captured from a camera that was clearly central in Sherlock’s bedroom and angled to face the bathroom doorway. Over and over, John watched himself move from the sink to where Sherlock lounged against the doorframe so seductively, clasping the younger man’s face and pressing a passionate kiss to his lips, with Sherlock returning it as if his life depending on it.

In the right corner, a silent clip played out John catching Sherlock’s hands, only a few hours before, and kissing them tenderly in the lounge as he panicked.

Center-screen, though, was the camera nearest the armchairs. Both John and Sherlock were seated, facing one another, and John’s voice was crystal-clear through the speakers as Magnussen pressed play on the clip. _“I’m going to check out, and go pack my things. Come downstairs in thirty minutes, and go get something to eat. Take it to the front steps to eat. I will call a car, and...well, I’m going to bloody kidnap you."_

Sherlock’s face was paler than when he had been hospitalized, if possible. He stepped forward, reaching out and slamming the laptop shut, but it took a few seconds for the sound to terminate, and John’s recorded voice continued for a second before being silenced. Sherlock was staring back at his husband, cold fear and fury in his eyes. “When?”

Magnussen tilted his head, smiling back at his spouse. “When, what? The additional camera, or the sound? Or when did I realize that you invalidated your contract by spreading your legs for the good captain?”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed furiously. “All of them.”

“Sherlock,” John whispered, but neither man looked back at him.

“Weeks, months, and...from the moment you changed your musical tastes to tempt him into your world,” Magnussen replied, his tone painfully condescending. “Honestly, Sherlock, did you really believe that I don’t watch every move that you make? That I don’t notice when you abruptly start playing Irish lullabies that happen to be listed in a new employee’s file?” Magnussen moved around the desk toward Sherlock, and John let out a hissed breath as the older man raised his hand, cradling Sherlock’s face in his palm. Sherlock did not recoil.

“I’ve watched every moment, and I have allowed it, because your desperation to keep him made you so very much more obedient to your vows,” Magnussen whispered, his eyes intent on Sherlock’s. “But if you thought for a moment I would allow this...man...to take you away from me, Sherlock Holmes, you were mistaken. You belong to me. Even the infidelity doesn’t matter, because this is the final line. No matter how often you slip away into corners to beg for another’s attention like a common whore, you will still belong to me at the end of the day.”

Only then did Sherlock withdraw from the other man’s touch, and in profile, John could see that the younger man’s eyes were glistening with pain, and it struck him like a knife through the heart. “Why?” Sherlock asked, tight and horrified. “ _Why_ do you insist on keeping me?”

He did not allow time for Magnussen to answer, if he even would have; as if the pain and rage of it all was colliding inside of him, harder than it ever had in eight years, Sherlock suddenly moved, twisting away from his husband and striking out, flinging everything off of the man’s desk onto the floor. The laptop clattered to the stone hearth of the fireplace behind the desk, the lamp hit the carpet and went out, and papers fluttered out of various folders to scatter over the floor.

“Why did you choose me!” Sherlock cried, turning back toward Magnussen with manic eyes, and for a heartbeat, John actually felt afraid of his lover. Sherlock looked rabid, terrified and angry, as backed into a corner as he possibly could be.

“I don’t know why I was brought here!” he snarled, and when his fists clenched, John realized that stitches had torn; dark, disturbing red splotches were beginning to form on Sherlock’s bandaged arms. John let out a strangled noise, starting to raise his hand toward the other man, but Sherlock didn’t even look at him. “I don’t know what the _fuck_ you have on Mycroft! How you own him so--but I can’t endure this any longer. Just _tell_ me!”

Watching him intently, Magnussen shook his head, letting out another infuriating chuckle. “You already know the answers, Sherlock, and that is the most fantastic element of it all. You simply don’t remember--and that, I’m afraid, is your own misfortune. But it makes no difference. Mycroft cannot change what is, and you will not leave. Stop this tantrum, and say goodbye to Captain Watson. I’m afraid his employment is terminated after this evening.”

Sherlock went utterly still at those words, his eyes wide and glass-like in the dim glow of the few overhead lights in the room. Without the flow of the desk lamp, his face was gaunt and hollow, almost ghost-like, and John felt as if he was seeing the other man staring back at them from beyond the grave.

“You’re never going to let me go,” he whispered, and Charles scoffed derisively.

“Of course I’m not going to let you leave,” he returned coldly. “To have and to hold, until death do us part, Sherlock....you said the vows too, darling. You may hate me--you say you don’t, but let’s not lie, now--and you may wish you could run away and live a fairy tale life with your toy soldier, but you accepted your duty. You married me, Sherlock, and you will not leave.”

Sherlock was trembling visibly now, but he did not move; he simply held his husband’s gaze, staring back at him as if finally, only now, seeing Magnussen clearly for the very first time.

“Say goodbye, Sherlock.” Magnussen repeated the words, quieter and colder and a thousand times crueler for their softness. “I had thought to let this silly story play itself out, but it seems that your Captain wouldn’t be able to endure that. The love story ends tonight. You won’t see him again after this, my pet.”

For a moment, nobody in the room moved. John found that he wasn’t breathing, watching Sherlock’s face. His lover’s face was blank, staring back at Magnussen like he was thinking very hard, very fast, and realizing something that he hadn’t wanted to face as being the truth. John’s heart froze in his chest at the sight, suddenly terrified that Sherlock was not going to choose to fight for them in the face of such impossible, cold brutality.

Then Sherlock straightened, all of the fear and tension bleeding out of his body as he blinked, and nodded slowly. “I see.” He turned, his eyes swinging from Magnuseen to John, and his face softened as he looked at the doctor. Closing the five or so feet between them, Sherlock slid his arms around John, embracing him with one hand curling into his hair and the other curving around his waist, his lips brushing John’s ear as the older man reflexively hugged him back.

“John,” Sherlock whispered, and the word made his lips pucker, brushing John’s earlobe as if in a small kiss. “Thank you.”

Before John could formulate a response--or even think of what the other man might be planning--Sherlock’s hand closed around the hilt of the gun tucked into the back of his trousers.

He moved fluidly, as if he had done this a thousand times, drawing the gun, unlocking it, and cocking it all before Sherlock had finished spiraling on his heel, moving from facing John to facing his husband in one flawless spin. The gun was raised and levelled at Charles Magnussen’s face in the span of mere seconds, and before John had even fully registered what Sherlock had just done, the glasz-eyed man spoke, his voice completely level.

“Goodbye.”

The gun fired, and John flinched, but instinct kicked in to protect the only thing that he cared about in the universe.

As Charles Magnussen dropped to the ground, the bullet hole precise and clean between his forever-cold eyes, Sherlock turned to face Murray and the other soldiers who immediately turned their weapons on him, his arms flying up in surrender and John’s gun dropping smoothly from his hand onto the floor.

“Sherlock--” John choked out, his heart simultaneously exploding and shattering in the same instant, overwhelmed with fear and love and desperation. “Christ, no, don’t shoot, fuck!” he gasped at the soldiers as they fanned out to enclose the two men and the fallen body, his own hands flying out in reflexive innocence, and in defense of Sherlock. “...Sherlock, what’ve--what have you done?”

Sherlock merely gazed back at him impassively, arms still raised over his head with his wrists bleeding harder, as unmoving as a statue, as if all he wanted was to make sure that John was the last thing that he saw should he be killed.

“What I had to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh  
> my  
> fucking  
> god


	26. No One Will Hurt You Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "This was the right place for them to be, now."
> 
> Chapter title from the BEAUTIFUL Kurt Schneider cover of TSwift's lovely "Safe & Sound." Please, considering listening to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter soundtrack:  
> -"Dear Ex (You Don’t Own Me)" by Disciple [Sherlock]  
> -"Let Me Love You" by Ne-Yo [John]  
> -"Northern Light" by Basshunter; source of story title  
> -"Safe & Sound" by Kurt Schneider <3
> 
> Wow.  
> We're here, guys. We made it.  
> Don't worry--the verse isn't ending. Not anytime soon.
> 
> (Added a photo from Google of a cottage in Sussex. I truly wanna run away and stay with John and Sherlock here.

** **

**Six Months Later**

_John,_

_Hope you’re well. Retirement is suiting me well, surprisingly--I’d like to think I’m too young for it, still, but there’s no denying the peace that comes with just being able to enjoy yourself and stop to smell the flowers._

_I...have to apologize, mate. I know that words can’t do much to change all that you two went through--everything that Mr. Holmes suffered--but...please, know that I’d never have stayed silent had I known all that was happening. Perhaps it’s the soldier in me, but I never questioned the man enough. It was my mistake, and I can only hope that you forgive me for my part in Mr. Holmes’ imprisonment. I’m so sorry that he was there for so long._

_Feel free to drop by if you’re ever back in London, mate. Wish you the best._

_Bill_

John smiled faintly, refolding the brief note from his friend and setting it aside on his desk. The sunlight streamed in through the large window in the study, warming the small, cluttered space pleasantly, and John glanced outside, watching the bees swaying idly above the flowers in the garden.

Sussex was a nice place to settle. He had never imagined himself leaving London, especially not for the countryside, but John had to admit--the beauty and peace here were beyond perfect.

He opened the next envelope, knowing that this one wouldn’t really be addressed to him.

_Hello, friends,_

_It is so strange to be back at Bart’s again--strange, but wonderful. I rather feel like I never left, except that everything is a bit more advanced. Time is so odd._

_John--I’ve enclosed some links for things that might interest him. Not jobs, per se, but activities--hobbies, really--that would be right up his alley, if he ever feels up for them. And of course, remind him that he is_ always _welcome to come see me here._

_Give Mrs. Hudson my best, please. I miss you all._

_Molly_

He withdrew the slip of paper listing several websites, nodding quietly as he stood, moving to place it on the second desk in the room.

Sherlock could look them up later, if he felt like it.

Crossing the hallway into their little kitchen, John smiled faintly when he realized that Mrs. Hudson had come and gone without disturbing them; the counters were tidied from their breakfast, and he could see that the pantry was restocked. The teapot was tucked under its cozy, and a note leaned against it with a smiley face to confirm that there was fresh tea hot and ready inside. She came out every other day or so from the small nearby village, where she had moved in order to be close to them while not being underfoot.

John knew that she hadn’t entirely wanted to leave London, any more than he had; but this was the right place for them to be, now, and in the end, Sherlock’s need for them both had persuaded her. Truthfully, John doubted she would have been able to stand being so far apart from the man she considered to be her surrogate son.

Pouring the tea and pulling out some of the fresh-stocked biscuits, John meandered into their front room, sinking into his armchair and gazing quietly out the front window, at their tiny front garden with its bird bath and cobblestone footpath that led from the little wooden gate up to the door.

He wasn’t sure if Mycroft had already owned this place, which looked and felt like something right out of Tolkien’s Hobbiton, or if he had pulled strings to get them such a sweet little hideaway so quickly. But John was grateful for it, however it had come to be.

Mycroft had handled everything, and he couldn’t have done better by them. Every staff member at Appledore London had received a handsome payoff as they were abruptly unemployed; and it had been blatantly clear at once that not a single person there was remorseful enough over Charles Magnussen’s death to not simply take the money and move on.

If anything, some had tried to refuse the compensation out of shame; John had, by now, received phone calls from nearly every man from the security team, all of them devastated to have found out just how dark and cruel their late employer’s actions against his husband had really been.

Magnussen had spun his web of deception and violence quite successfully; but now, in the wake of his death, it was all unraveling rapidly, and the world was slowly righting itself without him in it.

Bill had taken it all the hardest, horrified at what he had unknowingly allowed and even endorsed by his service to Magnussen. He had written them weekly since the night Magnussen died, talking about what he was doing now, and always wanting to know how they were doing. He had been so agonizingly apologetic to Sherlock that the man had finally included his own handwritten note in one of John’s replies, assuring Bill that he did not begrudge him for not knowing the truth.

John was startled out of his thoughts as the gravel driveway beyond their garden gate crunched, and he stood, blinking in surprise as he recognized Mycroft’s town car. The man himself stepped out, his umbrella in hand as ever, and approached the door, which John opened to greet him before he could knock.

“He’s asleep,” he explained quietly, stepping back to let Mycroft enter the little cottage. “Come in--I’ll pour you a cuppa.”

Once they were settled in the chairs by the window, Mycroft occupying Sherlock’s usual place, John sipped his tea quietly, watching the older man intently. Mycroft looked like he had somehow aged twenty years, and then lost five or ten off of that. His shoulders weren’t as tense as they had been in the past, but his eyes were weary, creased with new lines at the corners. Somehow, despite not being terribly alike his brother in appearance, he looked just as natural as Sherlock did in the gleaming leather armchair that Sherlock had selected for himself, when they were furnishing their new home.

“Gregory has been considering returning to police work,” Mycroft remarked at last, keeping his voice soft. In all likelihood, they both knew, Sherlock had woken and knew that his brother was in the house. But he hadn’t emerged, and neither of the older men intended to disturb him from his solitude. “He thought perhaps it would be beneficial to me--and to our ongoing relationship. I’m not sure if I want him to, or not,” Mycroft admitted, half-smiling. “He’s been happy as a civilian. Though, I confess, it wouldn’t _harm_ us, working together professionally again."

John smiled faintly back, shrugging. “He’ll make the right choice for him.” He raised his eyebrows, a touch teasingly. “Are you going to make an honest man of him anytime soon?” At Mycroft’s small, indignant splutter, John chuckled. “Oh, come now. All that’s happened--we could do with a bit of happiness like that.”

Mycroft sighed, giving him a bemused, mildly scolding look. “If we did, I’d rather insist on it being a double wedding, John.”

That made the doctor merely purse his lips, not at all opposed to the idea. Wasn’t as if John hadn’t considered it several times, in the past half year, though he knew there was no rush. “Alright. You propose first, and then we can start on planning. Maybe a year from now, maybe two. Give him time to build some strength and muscle.”

His ready agreement seemed to both surprise and please Mycroft, and he nodded slowly, drinking his own tea while watching John curiously over the rim of the cup.

“I’ve been waiting for you to come see us,” John informed him, when it was clear that Mycroft wasn’t going to volunteer further conversation. “I mean--I know you visit us often. But I’ve been waiting for you to decide that you’re willing to tell me, now. I haven’t asked, Mycroft, but you will do have to tell me.”

Mycroft’s eyes cut toward the hallway, and John shook his head. “He’s not listening. He plays ambient music when he needs to catch up on sleep after long nights.” John’s smile grew more real. “He’s expanding his repertoire of contemporary violinists and, well, music in general. I told him to watch some Lindsey Stirling videos, and move away from only listening to the classical composers.”

That drew a startled chuckle from Mycroft, who gave John a look like he wasn’t sure what to make of him. John merely waited, gazing right back at him levelly. “So now, tell me. What did he have on you?”

Stirring his tea slowly, Mycroft glanced out the front window, his discomfort evident in his eyes. Eventually, though, he did speak, so quietly that John had to lean in to hear him clearly. “There are...many secrets, in the Holmes family. More even than Sherlock knows, though some of that is simply how his mind works. Emptying out the information that he deems unnecessary. And some of it...some has been me, striving always to protect him.”

Mycroft’s lips tightened. “As deeply as I wish that I could be utterly transparent with my brother...I genuinely fear for how he would react to some things. But if you feel comfortable that you can keep it just between you and I, for the time being, until we agree that he’s ready to hear it....”

John nodded silently. He disliked secrets, of course, and it was a strong policy between himself and Sherlock never to hide anything from each other. But this...this information was well overdue, and if it _was_ as serious and life-altering as Mycroft believed it to be, then John would be equally inclined to protect Sherlock from the truth as well, until he was strong enough to take it all in stride.

After all, whatever this truth was, it had cost him nearly a decade of his life, and had left scars both inside and out that would never completely fade. Even if that same story had brought him and John together, neither man was going to be quick to consider it all justified.

Mycroft set his cup of tea aside. From the inside pocket of his suit jacket, he withdrew a letter, handing it to John wordlessly. As he read over it swiftly, John’s eyes widened in shock and disbelief.

Finally, he looked back up at Mycroft in sheer incredulity. “...a sister?”

Mycroft nodded shortly. “She is...quite insane, I’m afraid. Her name is Eurus, Eurus Helena Holmes. When Sherlock was young--much too young to remember now, if I recall, he was only seven years old...Eurus murdered a childhood friend of his, rather violently, and she intended to kill Sherlock, as well. She was stopped in time, and she has been incarcerated ever since. Sherlock was hospitalized, though he recovered quickly, and continued growing well.”

He paused, then sighed, looking down at his hands as he folded them in his lap. “Magnussen learned of her existence, somehow, shortly after he and I became aware of one another...and he had decided that I was someone he would prefer to have power over. He obtained control of the facility in which she has been kept almost her entire life.”

Mycroft looked up into John’s eyes again, and there was genuine grief in his gaze. “He blackmailed me with the fact that at a moment’s notice, he had the ability to release a young woman with truly alarming skills and intellect, who would like nothing better than to eliminate her ‘inferior’ younger brother. Myself, as well, no doubt, though Sherlock was always the one she loathed the most. With Eurus’ leash in Magnussen’s hand, he had the direct ability to cause my brother’s death, if he so wished.”

Mycroft rubbed a hand over his eyes, exhausted. “He demonstrated just how in control he was of the situation, several years ago, by releasing Eurus and allowing her to nearly murder _me_ before he arranged for her collection and re-imprisonment. I could find no means to force him to give up his control of that facility, and legally he did own and operate it. And then he made it clear that he would only continue to guarantee her restraint--and therefore Sherlock’s safety, as well as my own--if I persuaded Sherlock...to accept his pursuit of him.”

John’s voice was tight. “You had to convince Sherlock to marry him so that he wouldn’t unleash a literal madwoman who would love nothing better than to kill Sherlock...and Sherlock doesn’t even know that she exists?”

Mycroft nodded wearily. “That is the long and short of it. I felt it wiser to continue working behind the scenes, attempting to either reclaim control over Sherrinford Prison, or to extricate her from incarceration there, essentially sliding her right out from beneath Magnussen’s thumb. I have spent all these years trying to achieve either outcome, while allowing that snake to believe that he held all of the cards and that I was not fighting him.”

He met John’s eyes again, looking a little lost. “Truthfully, John I don’t know if I would have ever succeeded. These past few months...sometimes I have faced the reality that perhaps it was inevitable for it to end this way.” He inhaled, the breath sounding shuddery. “But with Magnussen’s death, now the Sherrinford facility is again government-owned and operated, and...I think it better that we wait to give Sherlock the full range of the details regarding the blackmail material. As far as I’m aware, he completely blocked the memory of Eurus’ existence from his mind after witnessing her murder that boy, and then seeing her turn on him with the same intention. I believe it is better that he not remember Eurus, at least not now, while he’s still struggling with what he did, himself.” Mycroft sighed heavily. “She...did him substantial damage, when they were children.”

“Psychologically?” John asked quietly, and when Mycroft’s face pinched, John winced. “...physically?”

“She is a sadist and a psychopath,” Mycroft murmured. “Even in Sherrinford, she is literally not permitted to be near another human being without three feet of glass, minimum, between them. Sherlock has scars on his body...that I believe he has rewritten the stories about how they happened. But...they were inflicted by his sister.”

John considered that, his face tight. All that Sherlock had been through, both before and since John had known him--all of the scars that the older man had ever seen on his body...and yet he had never imagined such a dark truth as this. He wondered if Sherlock ever even registered that he bore marks he didn’t entirely recall the origin of.

“How did you prevent his arrest?” John asked quietly, refocusing on Mycroft. “I was thankful to God that he wasn’t shot at once, but...I truly believed that he would be imprisoned for the shooting.”

Mycroft’s smile twisted bitterly. “When one has four reputable military witnesses to confirm the deceased man’s confession of his abuses prior to his being shot, it turns out that ‘Battered Spouse Syndrome’ is taken _very_ seriously as a defense in court. Between Sergeant Murray and the other three men who were present in the room reporting what Magnussen had said to you both, and Dr. Hooper’s very extensive medical records of all the damage that Sherlock ever sustained while living there...the judge that I spoke with read over the statements and then simply declared it self-defense.”

He glanced toward the hallway again, as if he could see Sherlock through the walls and the bedroom door. “It was the judge who encouraged me to find a place well-away from Appledore, and London in general, where I could situate you two to best recover.”

John frowned, raising his eyebrows. “He knew I’d be coming with Sherlock? No one found that suspicious, after reading those statements? They had to have included that the catalyst was our affair being exposed.”

Mycroft merely smiled again, looking remarkably unruffled by John’s bluntness. “Well...formally, you are here as his doctor and personal caretaker. You are still a licensed medical practitioner, after all, and you were legally his bodyguard for a year. Dr. Hooper added some personal notes regarding the positive impact that his dynamic with you had on his health, and concluded her report by signing Sherlock out of her primary care, and into yours. I signed as witness.” He shook his head, looking amused. “Considering that Magnussen had no documentation backing his statement that you were fired...there is no such record that you were. Your employment history remains untarnished, as does your reputation.”

That felt remarkably tidy, and almost devious in how perfectly it gift-wrapped the whole debacle, but John was hardly going to object to being legally protected as Sherlock’s primary guardian from now on. He was going to need to send follow up notes of thanks to the security men who had been in the study with them--their discretion was as salvaging for him and Sherlock as their statements against Magnussen were. “So...will there be any consequences at all, for him?” he asked, soft and hopeful. John had never dreamed that it could all actually be this alright, in the end.

The older man shook his head, his expression dry. “There was one thing that Charles Magnussen never took into account; the one thing that he would never have been able to buy, even with all of his power and influence. No one in his employ was ever truly _loyal_ to him--why should they be? He was a cold and callous man, who cared for no one but himself and what he could do to possess, and to break, others.” Mycroft brushed idly at his pants leg, as if removing invisible lint. “The judge’s evaluation, a word from Greg to his contemporaries, and...the Yard has closed the investigation on his death as solved, and sealed. The matter is over.”

He picked his tea back up, finishing it slowly. “Dr. Hooper advocated firmly for Sherlock requiring psychiatric and medical care, both, following the incident. Hence her signing him into familial custody...from which, quite cheerfully, I convey him into your capable hands.” He nearly smiled. “Though that, to be fair, is essentially family, anyway.”

They sat quietly for a few minutes, and then from down the hall, John heard movement. The soft hum that he had come to be familiar with when Sherlock’s music was playing was cut off.

Mycroft stood, going to set his empty teacup on the tray by the window. John rose as well, accepting the handshake that was offered and smiling faintly. “Come back by soon, will you? Bring Greg...text first. We could all have supper.” John nodded toward the back of the house. “He likes eating in the back garden, on good-weather days.”

Mycroft nodded, something bright and sad entering his eyes at the words. John could only imagine how it felt for the man, seeing his brother experiencing freedom and peace at last. “That would be delightful, John. Thank you.”

He took his leave, and John closed the door, going to clean out the teapot before he turned to make his way down the hallway and to their bedroom.

It was, by far, the sweetest room in the house; small, sparsely furnished and always softly lit either by the lamps or by sunlight through the enormous bay window on the west wall. They had arranged to have Sherlock’s old bed transported there from Baker Street, and persuaded Mrs. Hudson to rent 221B out again for the time being. She needed the income, and they needed this fresh start, from from everything and everywhere that they had known.

Opening the door, John paused and leaned against the doorframe, smiling faintly as he watched Sherlock. He was lying on his side in their bed in a pool of sunshine, his eyes on his violin where it rested on its stand in the corner.

Sliding onto the bed, John crawled to the middle and curled himself around the younger man’s body, feeling the warmth of the sun on his skin and clothes, and watching the soft rise and fall of Sherlock’s chest as he breathed. Even lying still as he was, he looked so beautifully alive and tranquil, and more at peace than John had ever seen him before.

“Do you need to play?” he asked gently. “I can bring it to you here, you can just lie in bed and enjoy yourself.”

Sherlock rolled slightly until he could look back at John, smiling faintly as he leaned forward to kiss his lips lightly. His face was fuller now, a natural flush of vitality in his cheeks that filled John’s heart with joy to see. Those eyes were as lovely as ever--but as his body strengthened day by day, John also saw the depth of _wholeness_ that had begun to shine in them.

“No,” Sherlock murmured back, raising one hand to stroke John’s cheek tenderly. “There are better things to do, now.”

The words were familiar, haunting, and John recalled at once when he had heard Sherlock say them before. He remembered the endless whirlpools of sorrow and loneliness in his the other man’s gaze when John had asked how he played so much, as they stood in the lounge together at Appledore, and Sherlock had told him he had little else to occupy himself with.

Meeting his gaze now, John felt contentment settle in his heart as he found only happiness and quiet satisfaction in those gorgeous glasz eyes. He smiled, nodding his acceptance of that answer, and rolled over Sherlock to kiss him again, unafraid.

Their fingers tangled together, hands sliding up the rumpled grey sheets until he had Sherlock’s hands above his head, his bare wrists pressed against the thin cotton sheaths that still encircled Sherlock’s arms as his restitched wounds finished healing. They weren’t at risk of tearing open, anymore.

Sherlock’s eyes were hooded, his pupils slowly expanding to hide the iridescent colors of the irises. “John,” he whispered, tilting his face up slightly to reveal more of his throat. “John, you promised me once, you remember?”

The soldier smiled faintly, cocking his head as he took in the long, lovely column of his lover’s exposed throat. “You want my marks on you, love? Want to look into the mirror and see that you belong to me, now and forever?” He chuckled as a nod and a pleading whine were his only responses. John leaned down, mouthing lightly over Sherlock’s pulse, tonguing the pounding beat, before he closed his teeth over the skin gently and bit, sucking a little row of claiming bites into Sherlock’s alabaster flesh.

Sherlock arched and moaned for him, fingers clenching around his, and his long legs fell open wider, bracketing John and drawing him in closer, tighter against himself. “Please, John. I need you, please...”

“I know,” he whispered back, breathing the words into Sherlock’s skin, feeling the heat of him beneath the older man, and knowing that Sherlock was absorbing every syllable into himself. “I know, love, I’ve got you.”

He was gentle, always, even when Sherlock whimpered and begged him to go harder--John could only smile tenderly, and remind him that there would be time for that. That he had to heal first. That there would be years and decades ahead to balance between love-making and fucking and every other way that they wanted to have each other.

“Every way,” Sherlock whispered afterward, curled toward the window and watching the bees. John lay curled around him, one arm slung loosely over Sherlock’s waist while the other held his phone between his face and Sherlock’s back, checking his messages. There were never many...Clara, updating him on Harry’s progress at the in-patient rehabilitation facility that she had finally agreed to check into, two months before...Greg, simply chatting, or passing on when he and Mycroft might next make it out to see them. Mrs. Hudson would occasionally text to notify him if she had to come over at unusual times, though she preferred handwritten notes.

“Hm?” He blinked, closing his phone and setting it on the pillow, sitting up slightly to look at Sherlock’s face.

“I want to have you every way,” Sherlock clarified, smiling faintly. “And I want you to have me, as well.”

Connecting the dots to what he’d said before, John chuckled softly, kissing Sherlock’s bare shoulder and feeling the soft ripple of pleasure that quivered through his boyfriend’s long body.

“We do, and we always will,” he replied, sliding his left hand down the length of Sherlock’s arm until he could take the younger man’s hand in his. Before, at Appledore, any opportunity he had had to touch Sherlock this honestly had been too good for John to notice the minute details, like the ever-present weight of his wedding band.

But now it was gone, long gone, and he lifted Sherlock’s hand to watch their fingers twine together, smiling drowsily as Sherlock began to hum a familiar Irish tune.

John was nearly asleep, lulled by the sunshine and the tea, and by the bone-deep bliss that always accompanied good sex. Sherlock’s voice was so soft he nearly thought he imagined it, but for the light squeeze of the dark-haired man’s hand inside of his.

“John?”

“Yes, love.”

A smile touched Sherlock’s voice. “We still haven’t said it, you know. Out loud, I mean.”

John didn’t open his eyes, just chuckled. “True. We both know it, though, don’t we?”

“Of course.” Sherlocked relaxed, almost melted into the bed and into John’s arms, and the doctor cradled his lover closer to his chest, as if he could make Sherlock a part of himself--more than he already was--if John simply cling to him tightly enough.

“I love you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My soul feels deeply impacted, right now.


End file.
